Jan Töve


The images in my book Night Light are views of dormant small towns and communities during bright nights and dark days. A street lamp, an illuminated window, a neon sign or the light of a summer night sky that never completely fades out. And the opposite: the winter season, when the darkness is grafted onto days early.

Strolling around these night landscapes is a lonely walk. The empty streets, the deserted park benches, the parked cars, the silence, gives a sense that time has stopped, and that the surroundings await a new day’s life and movement.

When you then look at the illuminated windows, the glimmer from TV screens, the silhouettes of people, you are reduced to a viewer, a statist, without a role and a reply. You are absorbed by the darkness, you become a shadow, a stranger. A moth searching for light in a landscape that, compared to the daytime, completely has changed character.

— Jan Töve, Hökerum, Sweden

Tom McGahan


I Am Always Here

I’ve walked the banks of this river for as long as I can remember, looking for something, looking for nothing, looking for her. This landscape is forever changing with every tide, never knowing what it may bring: muddy salty paths never really going anywhere, no destination, no arriving, walk some and maybe more turn back towards home, refreshed, windswept, sunkissed, sore feet, dry mouth, made an image or two, sometimes none.

The Romans came here. Saint Cedd came converting the locals to Christianity from their Pagan ways, and Vikings in their long ships battled here — spilling blood of the local Saxon inhabitants. The local Earl Brythnoth lost his head and like many tales of defeat it became a battle cry of the underdog.

My parents came here in 1971. They both came from Ireland: Mother from County Wexford and my Father from Tyrone in the North. Like many before them looking for a different life, Mum was a nurse and Dad a ground worker, Not long after my sister Theresa was born. I came along in ‘73 and my younger sister Mary Louise in ’79. You could say we were the typical Irish family: Convent educated, Mass on Sundays and to the Pub after, we played here, cried here and made our stories. We too were underdogs.

On my walks along the banks of the Blackwater Estuary I would often meet other solitary walkers. This Landscape with its “big Essex sky” has a very meditative quality, almost featureless. It encourages you to look within. I’m sure as with me much soul searching has been done while trudging along the sea wall, down past Northey Island to Southey Creek, or on the North bank around from Heybridge Basin to Goldhanger or Old Hall Marsh and up to Salcott Cum Virley, and the Blackwater Estuary Reserve. It’s a place where you can get away from it all and walk for hours without seeing a soul, left to your own devices and the sounds of oyster catchers and the rush from a lapwing murmuration.

In 2001 my mother was diagnosed with type 3 breast cancer. It was a deep shock to us all. I was living at home after returning from a stint of working on cruise ships. Sadly mum lost her battle with cancer, like Earl Brythnoth on the banks of the Blackwater. She fought hard but eventually succumbed to her deadly foe. It took a toll on the whole family, which I don’t think we have ever really recovered from.

Mum held things together, she was a kind and gentle woman, great at listening and great at talking. She had a deep faith and was a devoted Catholic although she didn’t like people saying she was religious. I would have said she was a spiritual woman. One of my friends described her as a “ Real Mum.”

During the time of Mum’s treatments and eventual death I frequently walked those salty paths — usually accompanied by her wee Jack Russell, Snoop Doggy Dog — trying to come to terms with the great loss. It was my “go to” place, my retreat. I found something there, something that I had never really lost: a deep connection to everything, my consciousness spilling out from all of my senses touching everything it pervades. It came from nowhere. I wasn’t looking or searching for answers. I was just walking and looking, nothing special, no sitting for hours in the lotus position no navel gazing, although I had done quite a lot of both of those activities.  Christians call it seeing God in everything. Buddhist call it realizing your true nature. I personally don’t think you can put a label on it. It just is.

This Landscape imprints itself onto your soul, and likewise we imprint ourselves onto it.

These images are based around the ideas of solitude, introspection and transcendence.

— Tom McGahan, Tollesbury, Essex, United Kingdom

Vincenzo Pagliuca


mónos is an ongoing project I started in 2015. Solitary houses along the Italian Southern Appennine stand out against the natural environment as monoliths. They are singular and magnetic architectures, photographed in the wintertime and with particular light conditions. They are places of dreams and meditations, which invite us to reflect on the symbolic meaning of the house for human beings.

— Vincenzo Pagliuca, Milan, Italy

Kinga Owczennikow


Nature’s Gaze Within the Urban Landscape

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

I photographed this recent, ongoing series in various areas of Albania’s capital, my current home. I aim to present viewers with everyday sights of natural and urban elements, in what appear as harmonic coexistences. The city vegetation, with its humble, yet ever-changing gaze, seems to show itself as a passing-by visitor to Tirana’s landscapes. I would like to believe that it patiently waits for a moment and an opportunity to take over.

— Kinga Owczennikow, Tirana, Albania

Andy Romanoff


The Mother Road

Route 66, the mother road, runs alongside Interstate Highway 40 as it crosses the country east to west. In my teens and early twenties I came to know 66 while going back and forth between Chicago and LA, traveling by car, bus and thumb. It was two lanes of asphalt then, carrying us through endless Midwest farmland, slowly giving way to the desert and its old west culture before we finally crossed the Colorado River into the palm tree’d wonders of California. It was thousands of miles filled with adventure and discovery for a green Chicago kid.

Traveling the road now, I glimpse the things I once saw fresh. Aged by time and removed from the present they take me back, and open the storerooms of my memory.

— Andy Romanoff, Los Angeles

Masato Ninomiya


My Wintertag (winter day) series is about the winter landscape in Japan. It is an ongoing project, started in January 2014. These are photos at the foot of Mount Fuji and in my hometown (central Kanagawa prefecture, an area along the Sagami River).

Lake Yamanaka at the foot of Mount Fuji is approximately 70km distance from my hometown. Where I live it rarely snows, but Lake Yamanaka freezes every year.

In November 2016 it snowed for the first time in 54 years in my hometown. Lake Yamanaka is the source of the Sagami River and it is the only lake that empties into the rivers among the Five Lakes of Mount Fuji.

These landscapes are simplified by snow and I also tend to express simply and minimally.

— Masato Ninomiya, Kanagawa, Japan

Olivier Lovey


In my Miroirs aux Alouettes series, begun in 2016, I create impossible images, close to surrealism, by placing stickers in public or an exhibition space.

By confusing the real and its double, I question the limits of image and representation. I revisit the notion of perspective, trompe-l’oeil and mise-en-abyme.

Originally thought to be photographs, my images also work as installations.

—Olivier Lovey, Martigny, Switzerland

Donald J. McKenna


I think it is good to make photographs that may appear to have no deeper meaning or greater significance than the thoughtful examination of the subject.

I am delighted when a viewer understands my interpretation and agrees with my conclusion, but I am not disappointed if they do not. Realizing a mutually-meaningful aesthetic experience remains an elusive goal.

If my image makes some connection with a viewer and engages their imagination, I feel my photograph has successfully touched them.

— Donald J. McKenna, St. Louis, Missouri

Larry Sykes


One of my favorite texts, as an architect, is Martin Heidegger’s Building Dwelling Thinking. It asserts that without buildings we can’t really experience the world. The pause and refuge buildings provide give us orientation in a landscape, allowing us to “dwell” there. Buildings make landscapes meaningful to us.

Many old structures at Ghost Ranch, New Mexico — where Georgia O’Keeffe lived, painted and immortalized the incredible landscape — clearly demonstrate Heidegger’s poetic thesis. On the other hand, a group of mid-century bunkhouses I came across during a recent visit to Ghost Ranch are buildings few would accuse of adding any meaning to the landscape. What are in one sense jarringly banal structures also happen to be thoughtful designs in the best traditions of modernism: climate-attuned, economical, cleverly winking toward both old west grit and Palm Springs modern. Their peculiar relationship to the landscape only makes them more interesting to me.

— Larry Sykes, Denver, Colorado

My Blog’s 9th Anniversary!

Nine years ago I founded the New Landscape Photography blog. It continues to bring me joy to share the work of talented contemporary artists.

As social media has taken over the photo-sharing world, I have fewer submissions and so am posting less frequently. But I believe my blog continues to be an excellent place for those who want to present multiple images and an artist statement for a project.

— Willson Cummer, Fayetteville, New York

PS: I made the picture above at Canal Landing, a small park near my home.