Through My Lens, I Found My Pen
Conway, Massachusetts
“I have no doubt that I often speak of things which are better treated by the masters of the craft, and with more truth. . . . If anyone catches me in ignorance, he will score no triumph over me, since I can hardly be answerable to another for my reasonings, when I am not answerable for them to myself, and am never satisfied with them. . . .”
Over 20 years ago, I gave up my pursuit of creative writing to pursue a career. Before that, I had, with earnest if not the necessary discipline, tried my hand at all manner of writing, from poetry to short stories, plays to essays—even writing a few band reviews for a burgeoning Boston music zine. I used to say that I had tried writing everything but a novel—not completely true, but a fair assessment of my efforts. I crafted my entire lifestyle to provide me with the space and detachment from serious commitment to allow me the freedom to write, living in rented rooms, working the second shift for free mornings, eschewing higher education’s groupthink for my own intellectual odyssey consuming my own organic syllabus allowing one thing to lead me to the next—from Joseph Campbell to Daniel J. Boorstin, Knut Hamsun to Chester Himes, Alexis de Tocqueville to Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Chatwin to Barry Lopez, Joan Didion to John McPhee, and so on and so forth. Even after leaving that informal hodgepodge of pursuits, turning my back on creative engagement as the centerpiece of my life, I never left behind the notion that a return may be lurking in my future, like a distant mountain, but one that seemed always miles off, never any closer no matter what I did. That is, until, in 2018, I took up with a fervor eclipsing my youthful efforts with the pen, creative engagement with a lens. Even then, I had no idea that a Sony mirrorless camera and a Zeiss 16-35 lens bought for a trip, were not only become the seeds of an obsession that infects me to this day, but would culminate in a return to writing.
“My object [is] to learn, not preach.”
Hatfield, Massachusetts
That journey continues with Lens and a Pen: Prose and Photos from the Pioneer Valley—my place to share. To share, much like Michel de Montaigne, the progenitor of the essay, my attempts to put my thoughts down in words. However, unlike Montaigne, I will also try to put my thoughts down in photographic images—a luxury the imminent Frenchmen could never fathom let alone use. Much like Montaigne I will, no doubt and with intention “often speak of things which are better treated by the masters of the craft, and with more truth” in personal essays and blog posts. But also like Montaigne, I too am never truly satisfied with my reasonings, my musings, my thoughts, my writing and my image making. Meaning that I am now and forever, as Barry Lopez suggests one should when entering a local geography, proposing rather than imposing my views, proposing my thoughts, my reasonings, both in my writing and my photography. For I confess that through Lens and a Pen: Prose and Photos from the Pioneer Valley, as Lewis Lapham, eminent writer, editor and publisher said, “My object [is] to learn, not preach.” And there is much to learn and so little time to learn it.
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The interesting thing beyond this near miraculous re-engagement with writing, is the reawakening of my longtime reverence for Place—a prominent subject and subtext in my youthful pursuit of writing. I explored avidly how humans interact, react to and engage with our particular environment from our earliest days as a species. I’ve been fascinated by how engagement with Place has shaped our day-to-day existence, our spiritual/metaphysical beliefs, our creativity and self-expression, our self-actualization and maybe even our genetic makeup. Not place in a vacuum, but Place as a human construct, an object made a subject through human interaction. Time and again, human interaction with Place and places has inspired and confounded me in the way an intricate puzzle does. A puzzle with its jagged pieces scattered about the surface of the globe and human history. Place as well personally inspires and confounds me, pushing me to investigate, interpret, extrapolate and meditate on my own personal interactions—through my lens and not—with Place and the places I go and what those places mean to me. Because, as Barry Lopez put it “[t]he interior landscape responds to the character and subtlety of the exterior landscape; the shape of the individual mind is affected by the land as it is by genes.” And my Place these days and for over twenty years has been the Pioneer Valley of Western Massachusetts.
“In the sleepy west of the woody east
Is a valley full, full o' pioneer”
Leverett, Massachusetts
Since the glacial retreat and for at least 9,000 years, people have inhabited the Pioneer Valley, taking advantage of the fertile soils that accumulated over geological time. Prior to colonization, the people here created, maintained and utilized an industry in and of the natural world unsurpassed by any of its subsequent inhabitants. It has drawn artists, writers, captains and corporals of industry—working men and women—farmers and foresters , entrepreneurs and innovators and many others of interest and continues to do so. And, of course, home of the birthplaces of basketball and volleyball. What I see when I go out to photograph is not just the places, the landscape, the beauty that I try to capture. It is the people and the uses they put to the land in living, working and raising their families in this region that I try to capture through my viewfinder. I do this and hope that somewhere, distilled in the pixels that I retrieve, you can find a little bit of each of them, past and present.
Make no mistake; despite living in Massachusetts most of my life and over 20 years in the Pioneer Valley, I am a neophyte in exploring its nearly 1850 square miles, with or without my camera. When I took up landscape photography those few years ago, my survey of the natural beauty of the area ramped up. However, it was a forced sabbatical due to the Covid-19 pandemic that turbocharged my exploration. During that period, I spent countless hours of “wheel time” scouting the area for photography, making thousands of exposures, both for documentary purposes for subsequent visits and for additions to my portfolio. Since then I have continued my investigation into the area through not only my image making, but through writing, publishing a few essays in the online landscape photography journal On Landscape.
There is a direct line, a thread connecting, these things to Lens and a Pen. A thread I hope you take up with me as I weave my way forward, stitching together stories, insights and images with my lens and my pen.
—Doug Butler
Zoar Gap