Night magnifies the differences between today's material culture and the subtle, deeper, hidden world of spirit.  The late Cheyenne spiritual leader Bill Tallbull once explained:  “When five o’clock comes along, he [the archaeologist] hangs up his boots.  This is the time of day when the spiritual part of the valley comes alive, in the evening and in the darkness.  A lot of spirits don’t come out until the sun sets.”

To photographically document these places of power, I consider the least invasive approach to be the most appropriate.  At sacred places, I seek to convey Tallbull’s message by the process of light-painting.  Walking about in front of the camera rather than behind it—illuminating the darkness with simple flashlights — transcends ritual.  I feel as though the act is a sacred, spiritual experience.

Welcoming serendipity, I’m there to learn — not only from the place, but also from the creative process.  No one can truly predict how the magical night sky will record, or how leaves shuddering in the breeze will appear on film, so I rely on Polaroid film to guide me.  Through years of light-painting experience I have learned to distinguish the subtle variations in intensities of light by sensation alone and do not use a meter.  

Ancients practiced “geomancy” to locate the appropriate spot for a ceremonial site or activity.  “Feeling out” the landscape for a light painting requires me to be silent and let place speak.  When Indian spiritual or tribal leaders introduce us to places of power they always cleanse and bless the sites first.  I always seek permission and help in understanding the message each photograph should convey. 

The initial invocation begins with a song by voice or flute to the four directions.  Drumming, smudging, the offering of sacred tobacco or corn meal are acts of honor and respect for place and its Creator.  The rituals are archetypal.  To enter a sacred place and presume to make an image without first acknowledging the spirits would be an act of great insensitivity and disrespect.  Simply being there is a gift of profound proportions.

Setting up for a light painting begins hours in advance of nightfall.  When the sun arcs past the horizon, the intensity of light stirs an acute awareness.  That first exposure at twilight time is often the most dramatic. The quality of ambient light, before dawn and after sunset, is crucial to these images. Slowly, I paint everything I want the film to see.  It may take an hour or the entire night.  Moonlight floods the scene, and the landscape takes on an aura of mystery.  To catch the subtleties of star trails or back-lit clouds, I may leave the shutter open until first hint of dawn.  When to stop is as important as when to start.

Through my light-painted photographs, I better understand the primal relationship between people and land.  The process arouses a co-creative symbiosis essential to awakening.  Because it is assimilated at a different threshold, the light-painted image seems to invite a union with place that transcends the expected.  Beyond that, if the Sacred Places Project calls attention to the willful destruction of Mother Earth and the fragile thread that connects us to places of power, then, for me, the process bridges the chasm between despair and hopefulness.

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