We had the opportunity to accompany Lidia Rusell on a virtual journey on series, Desert Landscapes (2019 – 2022), currently on view in our annual public outdoor exhibition Vision(ary). Her project presents expansive vistas of iconic American scenery — from the Mojave Desert to the Grand Canyon. An interview with the artist follows.
Lidia Rusell specializes in fine art, landscape, contemplative, and storytelling photography. Lidia combines her background as a journalist and publicity professional with her photography to tell stories about landscapes, places, moments, and reality behind forms. Her art explores the relationships between landscape, nature, human life, and spirit. Her photographs were featured in educational and art magazines, and were shown in group exhibits. Born in Poland, she currently lives in the US.
Follow Lidia on Instagram: @lidiarussellphotography
Desert Landscapes (2019 – 2022)
This project emerged from days of travelling through remote western desert landscapes of Arizona and California, so unfamiliar to my European eye. The visual language of American deserts is unexpectedly rich. I felt enchanted and humbled by the colors, textures, forms, layers of time, silence, sense of space, sense of unearthliness, the elements. Indigenous Peoples call these lands sacred and encourage their inhabitants to understand themselves through understanding the place they find themselves in, and in consequence, to become good guardians or stewards of the lands they belong to by virtue of birth or residence. If we understand ourselves in this way, we will grasp something essential about our relation to our communities, land we live on, and the planet. I am hoping these images reflect a sense of the awe experienced while driving and hiking through America’s deserts. These journeys took place shortly before the beginning (The Grand Canyon) and the end of the pandemic (The Mojave Desert), and they both prepared me for, helped to go through, mirrored, and enabled to better understand the meaning of that unprecedented time.
Lidia, congratulations on being part of Vision(ary). If we were on a photo trip to the desert together, where would you take us?
It may be too hot for Death Valley at this time, but I’d still take us to the Mojave Desert – some areas are not well known or widely photographed. For the most part it’s very much deserted – you can drive for miles and see just a train at the horizon or single vehicle. So it’s a super comfortable place for outsiders and empaths. Mojave’s vast open vistas, rocky hills, and remote roads have a pull that’s hard to resist.
The Mojave Desert sounds great. What are your photo essentials and what music, if any, should we play?
When it comes to travelling and photography, our presence and attention count the most. We need eyes wide open, sunglasses, a good pair of lightweight hiking boots, an offline or printed map, plenty of water, and plenty of stamina – we may drive forever on bad roads, face strong winds and blistering sun. Wind is music that the desert itself is playing.
Many Europeans also associate the Mojave with a quirky German cult movie from the 80s called the Bagdad Café and its’ hit song (lyrics start… “A desert road from Vegas to nowhere”) which captures something from the spirit… we accidentally found this small café in the middle of nowhere… buried in a desert dust it looked a bit too quirky for me, so I didn’t care to go inside.
I won’t play the very atmospheric Hania Rani’s music – though it would be great to introduce this talented young Polish piano player, vocalist, and composer (she’s a good photographer as well). Her nostalgic progressive mix of minimal tracks and neo-classical sounds would probably go well with desert sands and night skies. When we travel (it’s my heart that takes us places but it’s he who drives, just one aspect of his overall awesomeness), we sometimes listen to R.E.M. as we have this one old CD in the vehicle, but more often, we simply allow the sound of the place to reach us, so perhaps that’s what we could do now?
Thank you for the recommendations! What is the first thing we do when we get to our destination?
We take a deep breath and acknowledge our inner state. We take the environment fully in and make sure we understand where we stand – what we should pay attention to on this land, who lived there, and where these inhabitants or their descendants are today. We thank them (and the desert gods!) for allowing us to come that far. And we notice the weather…
What initially drew you to landscape photography and desert landscapes in particular?
I always thrived in nature, and grew up with a landscape that was New England-like: forests, lakes, and close to the sea. As a teenager I discovered the mountains, and used to hike with my high school girlfriends. We would hitchhike the entire country, from the far northwest of Poland, to the lower south, and oftentimes we’d cross the border to the less crowded Tatra High Mountains in Slovakia, which are part of the Carpathian mountain chain. Both Slovak and Polish sides are protected as national parks. Later I would hike there on my own with a 35mm analog camera. The Tatra Mountains would make me feel strong, brave, and unusually alert – it was almost as if I sensed a higher consciousness there, and I loved those silent conversations with rough landscapes (at 8000 feet, my fear of heights would take me back from the trail before I reached the summit).
Mountains possess a spirit, and so America’s deserts. When we immerse ourselves in this terrain and allow ourselves to be receptive, we tap into that well of desert wisdom. This connection is reminiscent of vision quests that have played important role in the spiritual practices of many cultures, including Christianity, Judaism, and Indigenous traditions. From a spiritual perspective, the desert is for growth and transformation. It calls for courage, strips away the layers of cultural falsehoods and illusions we cling to, leaving us with a raw, unfiltered view of reality. It provides us with great clarity and respect for the elements and forces that are bigger than us. Yet my journey into landscape photography began amidst the mountains, where a landscape felt grand and alive, and I wanted to freeze our encounter in time. My focus extended beyond physicality, I wished to depict the underlying mystery, the essence. At times, it felt akin to photographing a ghost – the unseen energies that pulse through our world.
You took these photographs shortly before the beginning and the end of the pandemic. How have desert landscapes throughout this period shaped your understanding of solitude and the human connection to nature?
Contrary to popular belief, silence in the desert is rarely an absolute void. Instead, it’s often punctuated by a variety of sounds: the whisper of the wind, the rustling of leaves brushing against one another, the songs of birds, thunderclaps, the patter of rain, and the reverberations of sound bouncing off the rocks. Yet, amidst this auditory richness, there is an overarching silence, akin to being nestled in a spacious vacuum bubble. It allows us to connect with both our surroundings and our internal responses so that we can better see and understand. The mental chatter diminishes, uncovering a spaciousness within us that daily distractions often hide. The desert, while captivating, offers little for the mind to focus on, creating a uniquely meditative atmosphere. When we become quieter, more empty, more desert-like, we can both loose ourselves and find the self that underlines our experiences.
The desert reveals that we are each solitary beings, unique universes in ourselves. We shape our own realities through the stories we tell. In this exploration, we can also see that everything else is a unique world, and together, we can create shared realities based on our collective experiences and the narratives we build together. We must learn to change how we view our relationship with the Earth. The pandemic helped many recognize our dependence on nature. We saw how the natural world thrived without us and offered us comfort during tough times. It’s essential that we take action to help the planet heal while there’s still time.
The desert journeys allowed me to recognize the power of the land. In these vast, seemingly barren places, I saw the endless possibilities of the human heart. As we move past the isolation of the pandemic, it’s important to nurture our visions for a new reality – one we started to glimpse during quiet, introspective times. Together and inspired, we can bring this new reality to life.
You’ve written in your blog you “lean towards more wild and rugged places” yet have been excited about visiting both “remote locations and the more iconic tourist destinations.” How does your photographic approach change depending on its isolation and location?
When navigating crowded locations, photographers often find themselves faced with two choices. The first is to photograph the moment and make a documentary statement (depicting scenes like tourists taking selfies at the precipice of cliffs or climbing nature monuments that hold sacred significance for Indigenous peoples, much like cathedrals do for Europeans). These images convey a juxtaposition of nature and human intrusion. Some photographers opt for a more selective approach and create idealized images devoid of human presence, carefully cleaning up the frame to remove any trace of tourists or fellow photographers. My preference leans toward arriving at these iconic sites when the hustle and bustle has waned, and fatigue has driven most away. We often choose “bad weather” day or venture to places that appear overlooked, nestled in the shadows of more popular attractions. I find value in spaces that afford a simpler interaction with the environment. In an isolated place, I allow intuition to be the guide (while having some idea about terrain based on former research). Sometimes there’s a need to decide about gear, length of hike, light, but usually all is spontaneous, and often feel that landscape recognizes the respect we give and offers to guide us…
Okay, feels as if I bored our photo group, and we could all benefit from a good cup of coffee. That’s what tourist destinations are for – they house delightful cafés and stores that offer an opportunity to appreciate the craftsmanship of local artisans. As a former ceramic artist, I often bring back from a trip a unique piece of pottery, and love to learn more about it.
When we venture into more ‘civilized’ areas, the visual narratives that unfold differ from those from untouched landscapes, but the cultures that thrive in the desert are picturesque and distinctive, even with a global coat of paint and disastrous impact on environment.
Some of your photographs feature Joshua trees, making us think about the environmental challenges threatening them. How can photography raise awareness about the interconnectedness of ecosystems and human happiness?
David Ulrich, a photographer who weaves the threads between art, nature, and consciousness, shared insights gained from research on the impact of climate change photography. If I recall correctly, the findings revealed that images that portray the disasters and evoke feelings of despair are often less effective in raising awareness than those that depict the beauty and fragility of our threatened environments. This revelation is profound. When we engage authentically with the landscapes around us, their beauty fosters a sense of gratitude and reverence. This emotional connection allows us to acknowledge the “invisible thread” that binds us all to the Earth.
Standing before a Joshua tree, or any element of nature that resonates deeply within us, we find ourselves in a contemplative space where we can perceive the sacredness of the land – like the Navajo people, who view the land as a powerful form of consciousness. The idea that, with every step we take upon the Earth, we are engaging with something far greater than ourselves is not just a romantic notion; it is a truth found across cultures and present in the literary traditions of the West. True happiness and fulfillment cannot exist in isolation, particularly when we are surrounded by landscapes that are suffering and exploited. The sight of dying Joshua trees – a species whose decline signifies the loss of countless other forms of life – serves as a reminder of our shared destiny. We are woven into this tapestry, feeling the land’s pain not just through despair but through the beauty it offers.
It is striking that while photographers are among the minority that articulates the state of our natural world, the majority of society remains unaware or indifferent. The beauty depicted in photographs is not just a visual treat; it is an act of reciprocity, an exchange between the planet and inhabitants. It invites us to pause, reflect, and perhaps take action in safeguarding our environments. Through this lens, we begin to understand that our happiness is intertwined with the health of our planet, and each image becomes a reminder of what we may lose.
What other photographers inspire you?
I like that the word “inspiration” is derived from the Latin “inspirare,” meaning “to breathe into.” There’s something timeless about the pure, fresh air of Ansel Adams’ and Minor White’s photographs. I have great respect for the dedication and work of Sebastião Salgado, Ragnar Axelsson, and Robert Misrach. I find myself drawn to images that evoke particular inner states in the viewer, much like the landscapes from David Ulrich. I get lost in the beauty of landscapes photographed by William Neil, Jimmy Chin, Roman Loranc, and Xuan-Hui Ng. The frames of André Kertész and Édouard Boubat never cease to inspire me; their curious, tender perspectives and thoughtful compositions remind me that there is always something captivating to see. I am fascinated by Abelardo Morell‘s pinhole projects, especially “Tent Camera,” for their unique processes and artistic vision. Additionally, I admire the intricate work of Wendy Bagnall, Sandra Bartocha, and Ingrid Weyland, which highlights their sensitivity and craftsmanship.
Gab Mejia is an exceptional young storyteller, photographer, environmentalist, and his response to my question during the National Geographic webinar about his favorite spot in the United States motivated me to explore the Mojave Desert. My list of inspirations is already quite extensive, but I’m also fortunate to have friends and acquaintance photographers who inspire me every day. Last but not least, my husband is a photographer – though his work is mostly confined to family albums and his phone – and he has the ability to inspire and even physically guide me a foot or two when I’m trying to frame.
We are getting ready to go back as we reminisce about your favorite places to photograph. What are they?
If you glimpse through my portfolio, I hope you’ll detect a pursuit of presence and a hint of mystery. I’m drawn to remote locations that were once considered “off the beaten path”: frigid islands, rugged hills and mountains, volcanic regions, deserts, badlands, and glaciers. If I could frequently visit such landscapes (and survive there!), it would truly be a dream come true. At the same time, I share a connection with the Atlantic Ocean, which feels like a more expansive version of my childhood companion, the Baltic Sea. Lately, you might find me among the East Coast’s sand dunes, absorbing their tales of the past, the shifting sands, and the uncertain future, while gaining insight into the resilience we will all need as we navigate through our collective transformation.
What is the last thing we do when we leave?
We express our gratitude. And make sure we are well-informed about how to return safely (details on the route, weather conditions, and time)… we don’t want to drive through mountain passes in fog or get stranded in the desert after dark, though such an adventure might offer great photographic opportunities. We appreciate the land for welcoming us and revealing its mysteries. One of those mysteries could be the realization that we are never truly alone in the desert?
