Photo by Dimitri Staszewski
The last year has been the most professionally productive of my career.
I made two, month-long trips to Mongolia to follow a story about the spiritual connection nomadic herders have with wild wolves.
I also lead a group of four tourists to Mongolia on an incredible expedition.
Workshop Arts published my first photobook Close to the Bayou.
That work was also exhibited as a part of the Texas Biennial (up until January 25th in Houston) and PhotoNOLA (up until January 6th in New Orleans).
I pitched and published my favorite editorial story I’ve ever captured for The New York Times about an archaeological dig near San Angelo in Texas.
I started a publishing project, Cedar Fever, and published my first zine under that imprint.
While I’m incredibly proud and grateful to be able to reflect on everything I’ve accomplished in the last twelve months, that production doesn’t come without a certain level of chaos. Over the last few months, I’ve felt an especially strong cognitive dissonance as I’ve been flung across the world into a community of nomadic herders only to be flung back to launch a book about artmaking and dying and then back into that nomadic world to follow a wolf hunt with winter looming.
Less than two months ago I was in western Mongolia, fingertips freezing, kneeling in front of my camera a few feet away from a fully grown wolf under the full moon. The following full moon I found myself in a bar in New Orleans, after a photography festival I was participating in had ended, listening to pirate sea shanties performed by a band of 30 people. A couple of days later I’m waiting tables, describing natural wine to urban cowboys in Austin, and a few days after that, I’m in a driverless car in San Francisco on the way to a fancy dinner party.
It’s a lot to take in.
On a backpacking trip in 2011, someone I was with told me a story about a group of travelers being led through the wilderness by one of their elders. Each day the party would wake up before sunrise, pack up camp, and then hike without stopping until after sunset only to repeat the same process the next day.
One day, the party woke up to see their elder, always the first one up, still in his tent. They waited a bit longer but were anxious to start the day. Someone from the group went to the tent and shook him awake.
“Leader, is everything okay? Shouldn’t we get going?”
“Today we need to rest. We need to wait for our souls to catch up with us.”
I find that when I’m moving so quickly all the time, it becomes harder and harder to slow down. There’s anxiety propelling me to move everything I have going on forward. There’s also an anxiety that comes with the idea of slowing down—a fear that the momentum propelling me forward might not be there after a break.
Maybe that fear is some sort of internalized capitalized ideal, maybe it comes from the industry (or industries) I’m in, maybe it comes from my more direct environment, the people I grew up with, the city I was raised in.
Maybe it’s just me.
A few weeks ago, an old friend told me to “Keep a deep seat and a faraway look.”
I knew exactly what he meant as I read the saying he had texted me, but I wanted to know more about its origins. What I learned, was that while it can be used in a number of scenarios, it’s often said as you’re about to open the chute to ride a bull or a bronco.
On one level it’s a practical piece of advice about how to sit and where to keep your eyes.
On another level, it’s a poetic way of saying “Hold the fuck on.”
Or at least that’s my interpretation.
I’ve never ridden a bull and don’t plan to, but the saying was exactly what I needed to hear.
My resolutions for 2025 are simple:
Keep a deep seat and a faraway look.
Give my soul more time to catch up.
Cheers and Happy New Year.