Ah, Winnipeg: a name that means “muddy waters” in Cree. Some would say that Portage and Main is the heart of the city, but truthfully it is at the intersection of two large rivers: the Red and the Assiniboine.

Over the years, these natural routes were replaced with pothole ridden ones - and development sprawled outwards to farmland, mini malls, and gated communities. But for all of my years, I’ve never lived more than a short jaunt from the river’s edge and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I was brought in as the Director of Photography on a short film project, titled “Meet Me on the River.” The small crew was full of local talent; the result was a poetic love letter to the rivers we live our lives alongside.

Under the steady gaze of director Boeseya Petra, this film showcases several river transitions - the obvious one of water’s freeze to flow, but also a more human one of building a canoe from scratch and then pushing off from the shore. These concurrent stories begin in the heart of the city and are traced to the mouth of Lake Winnipeg.

The soundtrack is original, composed by Samantha Selci. Drone work, handled by Trevor Menard. Self-filmed canoe building, by Rob Kokesch. ‘A-camera’ filming and editing it together, done by me (David Quiring). Field and production support from Quinn Greene, Siyee Man, and Rhonda Baker.

This seven-minute short film is a crescendo from winter to summer and an invitation to slow down. I am admittedly biased, but I think it would pair well with that coffee you’re holding.

Muddy or frozen, water is the basis for life on this planet. I’m glad to have been part of a project that celebrates its significance.

Film

Watch here:

Screengrabs

Primary screengrabs from my footage, used for film promotion.

This grand pop-up newsletter experiment is titled: Afterwords Japan: Through the Torii Gate.

What in the world is a pop-up newsletter, you ask? Well, it’s a newsletter that will disappear once it’s done.

Here’s the plan: this newsletter will be published daily and share words, images, and sounds from exactly three years ago in Japan - a special trip that has left its indelible mark on my soul. Sign up now or anytime during the month to time travel with me as we retrace the journey.

There will be a couple of pilgrimages of sorts; to an unassuming coffee shop that is a leader in the evolving international bean scene, and also an immaculate old temple that is a root of the simple meditation practice I do every morning. We’ll travel in the blink of an eye by bullet train and spend a week walking from one countryside town to another. I’ll probably even tell a story about the first time I used a bidet, which I’m certain will have you laughing at my expense.

When the month is over, the email list will self-destruct into nothingness. So follow freely without fear of your inbox taking a step further into a state of overflowing entropy.

The short of it:

I was running into some metadata frustrations after loading my Fujifilm RAF raw files into Adobe Lightroom Classic; the star ratings I flagged in my camera were nowhere to be found, film simulations I shot with were ignored, and the running shutter count/actuations was not hiding in its normal places. And so I solved these issues for myself by building the Fujifilm Toolkit plugin!

The long of it:

When I returned from Guatemala in 2017 I had over a month of photographs from a new Fujifilm X-T2 camera that, in lieu of not traveling with a computer, I had reviewed nightly and flagged in camera using its built-in star rating system. When I got home and imported all these photos into Lightroom, I was surprised (and dismayed, to put it lightly) that the star ratings did not translate/load into my catalog at all. The resultant sifting through that many photos was a tedious task that took days which, in my mind, should have been avoided. I would much rather be able to hop right into my digital asset manager and get to editing my flagged photos (never mind the time in would save).

The good thing about having a degree in computer science is that I could go ahead and write some code to fix it for myself. And so I did, and over the past few years developed a plugin for Lightroom to solve a bunch of pesky little metadata frustrations I was having. At first it was just a crude solution for myself to optimize my workflow, but upon mentioning it offhand to a few colleagues I soon found there was others interested. So when Covid-19 hit and a good portion of my schedule was suddenly cleared, I used some of that newfound time to develop its functionality properly for both Windows and Mac under a shareware model (free to use in a limited fashion and paid to unlock batch processing), built a purchasing/registration system, and a website to be the front facing side of it all.

All this is to say, here is a plugin I developed for myself for Adobe Lightroom Classic. It has optimized my workflow and, if you also photograph with Fujifilm cameras, I hope it will be of significant value to you too.

List of functionality at time of launch:

• Show complete list of metadata: View a long list of ALL the hidden metadata contained in an image file (works great for all cameras beyond even Fujifilm ones).
• Load in-camera film simulations: Set the camera profiles to the exact film simulations you used when composing images with your Fujifilm camera.
• Load in-camera star ratings: Set all the star ratings in your catalog to match those that you set on the back of your Fujifilm camera.
• Show shutter count/actuations: Get the hidden shutter count/actuations information for your Fujifilm camera.

Here’s to getting it done in 2020! Download the plugin for yourself over at www.fujifilmtoolkit.com.

Life has a certain way of gaining momentum. We choose a direction and then keep our heads down as we move forward, trying to keep our feet beneath us while navigating through a chaotically complex world. Any orienteer worth their salt knows that this sort of approach is a surefire way to get lost, whether in the woods or on the divergent paths each of us individually walk from birth to death.

Our internal compasses need to be recalibrated from time to time; honed back in to account for all that has changed around us since we last paid them attention. We must find space between the efforts where we can better survey the landscape of our lives; looking back at the path we’ve trod, cultivating perspective for where we stand, and consciously choosing the direction of our next steps towards the expansive horizon. In a sense this is the definition of living creatively - actively, not passively -  and I dare say it is a process of checking in with oneself that is not limited to capital A “Artists”.

Earlier this month (March of 2020) I was invited to be an artist-in-residence at Falcon Trails Resort in Manitoba, Canada. Without getting into the details, it is suffice to say that this opportunity for retreat came at a moment when it was much needed - a gift of spaciousness amidst relentless daily struggles, which had become a pattern all too familiar.

Turning off my cellphone as I left the city limits of Winnipeg, it was time to be wholly dedicated to being present with what was in front of me. Cutting away the inevitable distractions that accompany living in the modern world, I sought to reconnect with a familiar yet elusive cadence; openly receiving on a deep inhale and creatively expressing on a full exhale - uninterrupted.

A plume of smoke at the end of a lonely gravel road drifted from a cabin in warm greetings. Arrived and sheltered, it was not long before Mother Nature welcomed us in her own way with a blank canvas of fresh snowfall that blanketed absolutely everything. Peace settled with the snow, without and within; undoing a latent tension within me that had sneakily taken up residence. We all have different environments which help us get out of our heads and back into our bodies, and for myself nature has always been a strong anchoring force that pulls me back.

The lump in my throat soon loosened, and it did not take long for words and images began to flow anew. Alongside illustrator Adrienne Shum, we spent time exploring with all our senses and collaboratively rendered similar scenes that touched us through our different lenses. The resulting body of work is simple, yet wide and wonderful - much broader than I expected of our brief retreat. The muse is e’er an unpredictable thing.

After a mere two evening sojourn, it was time to return to the urban sanctuary that is my apartment.  I turned my phone back on to discover a brave new world. The Coronavirus, which I had been following closely due to its effect on those I’m connected with in Japan, had arrived on my figurative doorstep in Canada. My phone buzzed incessantly as the ramifications of the impending pandemic rolled in, and within 48 hours all the work opportunities I had cultivated for the next six months completely dried up. Oof - hello space, my old friend. Time to get creative, as I know so many of us now must.

There are moments of chosen pause and there are moments of forced pause. While both create space for new things in our lives, there are otherwise many opposing dualities between the two: within our control versus out of our control, carefully timed versus unexpected, comfortable versus uncomfortable, gain versus loss…the list could go on. Although in extremity these contrasts can feel like they are black and white, if we look closer they both seem to be present in tandem in both cases - just in perhaps different quantities and balance. The question that follows then, is: how can we hold both?

In all pauses, there is an opportunity to step forward; however, it is in the consequence of not doing so that we see a vast difference. When the momentum of our life disappears from a forced pause, the cost of inactions shifts from simply maintaining the status quo to a wider unravelling. Yet, the opportunity remains if we decide to act creatively and choose it. The key is to keep your head on your shoulders, survey the landscape, and creatively find a new way forward. Keep your head up and don’t get stuck.

Both when the times may be good or when they may be challenging, it is worth remembering: this too will change. Did you have a tough day? Remember: this too will change. Was today instead really good? Also remember, this will change too. Remain agile and we can handle all of it one step at a time.

Despite a bit of a delay in publishing due to other important conversations needing to be had regarding the pandemic, this work has since been released on the Falcon Trails Instagram feed under the hashtag #sketchesandsketchimages. Check them out online and, if you ever get the chance, in person!

Photos

Japan’s roots go deep. Stemming from a volcanic foundation surrounded by turbulent seas, the character of both the land and those who live upon it is entirely its own. It is widely recognized that, along with Ethiopia and Thailand, Japan is one of the few world cultures to have never been colonized. As such, it is uniquely intact. Even as the country steps forward and leads the way into an emerging technological future, there remains a thread connecting the modernizing present with something much older.

These are the threads I sought throughout my time in Japan - the connections between old and new. Foundational plans were laid to walk ancient trade routes in the mountains, to follow the footsteps of my teacher’s teachers on pilgrimage to a Zen temple founded by Dogen at Eiheiji in 1244, and to pursue a myriad of side-interests along the way. Though expectations and hopes formed the backbone of my on-the-road ambitions, the most memorable experiences came serendipitously along the way. Travel is a good reminder that even the best laid plans should be held lightly and with space to be filled by that which you cannot even imagine.

I used to send out postcards; little notes written on the far side of the world destined for mailboxes of missed loved ones. Somewhere between then and now I stopped. It was only when my sister recently pulled out a shoebox that housed a collection of saved postcards that I even realized I had forgotten this practice. Now, I return with stories collected in notebooks, photos, and the memories of both my own and companions from along the way. With a focus on sharing breadth I send out some postcards here to you today, but the ephemeral nature of digital is quite different than that which once upon a time would have ended up in a treasured shoebox. I ponder a way to better share weavings of words and images, which perhaps will find a way onto bookshelves in the same sort of way. But for now, these are for you.

Photos

The compass always points northward, and like its needle I inexplicably feel a pull in that direction wherever my dusty boots may happen to be. Situated northwards from my home at the top of Manitoba, the town of Churchill sits at the edge of the treeline and on the breezy shores of the Hudson Bay.

Returning is a beautiful thing; the same place at a different time, adding up to a wider perspective. This was my third return to Churchill (here is some field work from visit number one and visit number two), and it is interesting to see that the issues facing the region have shifted considerably over a short period of just eight years. From the local level they echo outward: the death of a critical member of a community of only 700, the burning down of a bakery that served not only fresh delights but also as a gathering place, the closure of both railway and port isolating a northern town that previously had the unique blessing of connectivity. And so too do global influences cascade inward on the town: climate change melting the permafrost making access from the south ever more difficult while also simultaneously opening up summer northern sea routes, self-interested parties looking to stake claims in the opening north, researchers descending on the community in seasonal influx. The region is shifting.

Problems beget solutions, and so things evolve; the discovered process of breaking peat down to soil has allowed greenhouses to be erected in pursuit of food security, the railroad has been purchased and restored by a consortium of local and foreign investors, large ships are arriving at the port that stimulate one aspect of the economy but impact wildlife and therefore the community’s keystone industry of tourism. All this is to say that change is inevitable, and adaptation to the uncertain future is going to be full of tradeoffs.

Everything is linked, but much of it is out of sight and out of mind. The older I get, the more I realize that the most important stories are the ones that will unfold over my entire lifetime. Within a particular moment it is tricky to piece together the unfolding puzzle and, while seeking deeper understanding for oneself is good, sharing these unseen stories is a responsibility of our times. With camera and pencil in hand I step out into the world. With reflection and technology I share my experience with all who will listen. Thank you for listening.

Photos

Nestled just off the east coast of Canada’s mainland is an island all to itself; a land farther apart than one might first think. Jutting out into the North Atlantic, its endless rocky coast was the first land encountered by seafarers venturing from the far side of the ocean. Vikings and settlers, historic and modern alike, continue to come upon these rough shores with appreciative eyes; sanctuary after a long crossing. Newfoundland is a name given to these rocky shores, and it literally explains itself.

Newfoundland is an old place, both in terms of its geology and humanity. It is a solid rock pushed up and out of the North Atlantic’s turbulent waters by the slow, powerful, and unyielding force of colliding tectonic plates - a stark contrast with the fertile soil of the Maritimes further east. Many who first came upon it moved on quickly, but a special few chose to stay and call it home; strong people to match the equally rugged land beneath them. The capital of St John’s is tucked away in a rocky harbour on the east shore and, founded by John Cabot in 1497, is Canada’s oldest city.

Speaking of Canada, Newfoundland’s relationship with the rest of the country is a complicated one. Fiercely independent, they begrudgingly were the last province to join confederation in 1949 - recent enough that many people still living recount the shift firsthand. The vote for unification came at a time of hardship and need, and, even when feeling backed into a corner, it only passed by a slim 51% to 49% margin. To say that some people remain suspicious of a conspiracy around the result would be an understatement. Federal laws such as the cod moratorium of 1992 that banned locals from fishing in their waters only fuelled the smouldering fire.

If it weren’t for the odd Tim Hortons along the highway that crosses the island, Newfoundland feels like a country unto itself. The culture, the people, the industry, the accent…all remain distinctly their own. A tightly knit community, the Newfoundlander view of the world is that you’re either “from here” or you “come from away.”

Exceptionally kind, a chance locking of the gaze with a Newfoundlander oft turns into a meandering 30 minute conversation. On the street, in the pub, at the grocery store…the culture is unhurried and serendipitous. Beyond talk of the weather and the world are the quieter discussions about the slow transition out of a failing resource-based economy and the ongoing exodus of young adults from rural communities or even the island entirely. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the phrase, “Stuck between a rock and a hard place,” originates from here, because it certainly fits. Still, all are welcomed with open hearts despite perhaps some underlying political friction.

There are more than a few question marks regarding Newfoundland’s future, but I remain optimistic. In my time on the island I glimpsed what the land and people here have to offer; there is an untapped potential that’s been largely overlooked in lieu of the plentiful resources at their fingertips (the ‘3Fs’: fishing, farming, and forestry). But resources aren’t infinite and the heavy lean on them simply was not sustainable in more recent years. Transition is tough, and doubly so when it’s forced, but so are Newfoundlanders. Locals are shifting their mindsets to creatively carve out opportunities in innovative new ways and a new evolution of the island is afoot.

I come from away, but I can say with certainty that I will return once again.

Photos

Every year as I return from breezy festival fields to my warm urban apartment, I bring home with me a sense of renewal.

The official vision of the Winnipeg Folk Festival is to cultivate experiences of discovery and learning through the celebration of people and music; however, a quieter goal that has been shared with me over these past few years is that of creating a safe space in a troubled world. In both cases, these aims address larger social values, and it is in this that I truly feel that this festival sets itself apart from the current plethora of others out there. The resulting action from these idealistic undertones is something I am happy to be a part of and it never ceases to refill my cup of hopefulness.

So here again I find myself sitting on the far side of a worked festival with more than a handful of memories to sift through; for the organizers, for myself, and for you. Between assignments and whimsical wandering, a few particular stories caught my eye which I would like to share with you today - all of which have a sort of circular nature to them.

A circle has no beginning and end. It is a powerful symbol of continuity and connectedness. This supports that, and is a result of that which came before. Most things are cyclic in life, at least in their healthiest forms, and the creative life is no exception. We build upon what came before, and in turn pass along the lessons we’ve learned to the next generation.

The Winnipeg Folk Festival recognizes this in the community that gathers in its fields, and endeavours to nurture growth. One clear example of this is the Young Performers Program. Every year, established musicians are paired up with aspiring young apprentices to mentor them in their songwriting and performance. After spending some time incubating new ideas, they step onto the stage together to share the fruits of their collaborative time with the world. For some this is their first chance of being in the spotlight, but the intent is that it is anything but the last time.

This year, the event was kicked off by a band born at the festival - both literally as babies, and again as musicians in the Young Performers Program some years later. Now graduates with more than a bit of experience under their belts, they stepped onto the main stage in front of the folk community. Following in the steps of those that came before them, in this moment things came full circle for Lucas and Madeleine Roger (of the band Roger Roger).

Photos

(continued from Part 4: Walking in the clouds.)

“Tell me about Guatemala,” a friend shoots the question across the table at me over a fresh pint of beer. Between excursions that take me far from home, we seasonally return to this watering hole like the nomadic animals that we are. Today, perhaps I might begin with remarking about how great it is to have a proper ale touch my lips once again, but more likely I will jump write in and tell of the new friends I met on the road.

There is Evelyn, a kindly woman who welcomed me into her home in Antigua and helped me get my feet underneath me. Cats and dogs come and go through her doors; they are rescues and strays - kind of like me. With an open heart she welcomes us all into her family without skipping a beat. Fully bilingual, breakfasts were spent chatting in English about life, love, and the bigger issues at play, and days filled in with time spent with connections she made over swift Spanish speaking into her phone. She opened doors to me that, on my own, I never would have known existed.

There is Mercedes, a coffee farmer with a small plot of land perched on the side of a volcano. Inviting me to walk his fields and into his home for a cup of coffee with his family, we became fast friends with a mutual love for a quality cup.

There is Armin, a Swiss-German man who married into the Mayan culture and a very different lifestyle that came along with it. His wide background and education has allowed him to find a role as the protective steward of a cloud forest reserve located steps from his garden, and he has grown to be a leader in the community who generously teaches others of alternative ways to make a living in hardship.

There is Rogelio, a kind Mayan fellow who took me under his wing and taught me how to see in the cloud forest. The only English he spoke were the names of animals learned from books, but more importantly was the learning from his solo walkabouts in the forest where he would spend days sitting with the animals, simply watching and drawing their likeness in his sketchbook. His eyes lit up when I showed him photos of Semana Santa which, although in his own country, was a world away from his quiet village life. In both of our broken Spanish we had so many questions for each other.

Every place is intertwined with its people, and so are the stories that come from them. When I begin a trip I do so not knowing whom I will happen to meet along the way, but when I return these serendipitous relationships are the seeds for the stories of my experiences there.

To all of the people I meet along the road that is this life, I am grateful for you.

Photos

(continued from Part 3: Lake Atitlán.)

The paved road gives way to gravel, which eventually narrows to a rocky path before disappearing altogether. Here, at the literal end of the road, lies a tiny island of Guatemalan cloud forest and the community protecting it. I was to be a guest of both in the coming days.

Step. Stop. Listen. See. Walking through the cloud forest with a skilled guide, it is abundantly clear how much of the ecosystem, teeming with life around you, might go completely unnoticed on a brisk walk. Fascinating plants, animals, and all their beautiful interactions hide in plain sight. Only by tuning in to all of our senses can we notice the sounds, smells, and tracks that serve as clues for us to notice their existence - all of which is intricately connected.

Rogelio, my Mayan guide to this place, led me in walking meditation daily. We moved with slow and quiet steps, communicating beyond language; not only because of the broken Spanish on both our ends that made conversation challenging, but the place itself commanded a certain soft reverence. Moving in such a way touched a similar rhythm set deep in my bones from previous times spent on both meditation and wilderness retreats back in Canada - a peaceful sense of interconnectedness with everything around.

There are two ways to walk: quickly, so as to reach a destination, or slowly, so as to notice all the intimate details along the way. In both the cloud forest and life in general, this is a fact well worth remembering.

Photos

(continued as Part 5: People.)