Collected Moments of Survival

Breath of the Earth Charcoal on paper 70cm x 90cm As a photographer, I have always been fascinated by dust. There is something about the way it changes an image — softening the landscape, catching the light, creating atmosphere where there was none a moment before. Some of my favourite photographs have happened because of dust. An animal appears through it and, for a few seconds, seems almost to emerge from mist. I had walked past this particular dust bowl many times. I knew it was there. I knew what the animals used it for. But I had never really stopped to think about what it might offer photographically. Then one day, a zebra dropped to the ground. Almost immediately, dust began to rise around it. I turned the lens towards it. Of course, I knew why the zebra was doing what it was doing. There was nothing unusual about the behaviour itself. But suddenly the ordinary became something else. The dust lifted around the animal, catching the light and softening the edges of its body. For a...

The Gaze That Does Not Yield Charcoal on Paper 70cm x 90cm There was something different about the zebras that day. I had spent time watching them at the water, and what struck me was how intently they observed their surroundings. I was hidden from sight, so they could not see me. But they could see the camera. It was such a small change. A round glass disc where there had not been one before. Everything else was exactly as it usually was when they came to drink. The landscape was familiar. The water was where it should be. Nothing obvious had changed. And yet they noticed. Again and again, I watched them stop and look. Not dramatically. There was no sudden panic. Just an alertness that seemed almost disproportionate to the tiny alteration in their surroundings. They were watching the camera lens. And I began to wonder how much more closely they must observe the world than we do. We move through familiar places and very quickly stop seeing them. We know the road, the room, the view fro...

Beyond The Last Glance Charcoal on Paper 90cm x 70cm There is something about watching a wild animal move away from you that I find unexpectedly poignant. Perhaps it is because, as an observer, I am always aware that the encounter is temporary. I may have been sitting quietly for hours, watching the herd move around me, and then suddenly one animal turns and begins to walk away. There is an almost instinctive feeling that it might disappear forever. But of course, that is my story — not theirs. For the zebra, there is no sense of departure. Nothing has ended. It is simply moving on. It may be going towards water, back towards the herd, towards food, towards shelter. It may be responding to something I cannot see or hear. Whatever the reason, its life continues beyond the point at which I can see it. That distinction stayed with me when I made this drawing. I deliberately allowed much of the animal to disappear into the white space. There is enough of the body for us to understand that ...

  There is a strange discipline involved in drawing a zebra. The animal appears to offer the artist everything. Every stripe seems to demand attention. Every change in tone appears to need recording. The surface of the body is filled with subtle variations of texture, light and shadow. And when the subject is Hartmann's mountain zebra, there is an almost irresistible temptation to try to capture it all. For a long time, I thought that was what drawing was about. Looking carefully. Recording accurately. Leaving nothing out. But years of observing these animals have gradually taught me something rather different. Sometimes the most important part of a drawing is what I choose not to put into it. The more time I spent with the zebras, the less interested I became in simply reproducing their stripes. The pattern that makes a zebra immediately recognisable can also become a distraction. It is possible to draw every stripe perfectly and still fail to capture the animal standing ...

  Fragments I There is something curious that happens when you spend long enough in wild places. At first, like most people, you arrive with expectation. You hope to see something. You look constantly toward the horizon, scanning the landscape for movement, for activity, for that moment of discovery that justifies the journey. But nature rarely works on our timetable. Over time I have learned that finding what you seek is not always about searching harder. More often, it requires the exact opposite. It requires stillness. Working on my recent encounters with Hartmann’s Mountain Zebra has reminded me of this lesson repeatedly. In the harsh and often unforgiving environment in which they survive, nothing happens quickly. Water is never assumed. Shelter is scarce. Movement is deliberate. Energy is conserved. And so, in order to truly observe them, one has to begin surrendering one’s own sense of urgency. Waiting becomes part of the process. I have spent long periods simply sitting qu...

There are animals that impress us at first sight, and there are animals that reveal themselves slowly over time. The Hartmann's mountain zebra belongs firmly in the second category. At first glance, a zebra appears to be one of Africa's most familiar animals. Its striking black and white stripes make it instantly recognisable, even to people who have never set foot on the continent. Yet familiarity can be deceptive. The more time one spends with Hartmann's mountain zebras, the more apparent it becomes that there is far more to them than their distinctive appearance. For me, the Hartmann's mountain zebra became a subject not because it was dramatic or rare, but because it seemed to embody something far deeper: endurance. Over many years of observing these animals in Namibia, I came to realise that their lives are shaped by an environment that offers very little in the way of comfort. Unlike many of Africa's more celebrated wildlife species, Hartmann's zebras inha...