Now that I've been writing these blog posts for a while – 18 years, actually, which is rather more than "a while" – there are quite a few that, if I were to write them now, I might well do differently. I've learned a lot about myself and my views by thinking about me and them out loud in public, as it were, and no doubt my ability to write has improved along the way, too. So at moments like this, in a (hopefully brief) post-viral lassitude when fresh subject matter seems elusive, I find it a useful exercise to excavate posts that are more than a few years old and polish them up to 2026 specifications.
This one is a substantially revised version of something I first posted in 2016, and which was subsequently published in the online magazine "On Landscape", where it kicked up a certain amount of unrest (no, that's not a misspelling of "interest"), even provoking a written response from Mr. Landscape himself, Joe Cornish. [1] Well, you just know when you're doing something right... I don't think my views have changed much, but they have softened, and I do think I can make a better job now of expressing them. So here we go.
So let's say I'm reading the review section of the Guardian newspaper one Saturday and above a review of
, a novel by Mick Jackson, there's a photograph of what I suppose has to be the North York Moors, given the context. Even printed small on newsprint it's striking: a long vista over a craggy moor, alive with the russet and green tones of moorland in scudding sunlight. You can practically feel the wind tugging at your clothing. In the mid-distance there's a crag that could be a house, or a house that could be a crag. So I look to see who the photographer is; to do this I have to turn the paper sideways and squint at the tiny picture credit at the bottom right-hand edge of the page. It reads ALAMY. Nothing else. It seems this beautiful image has been sourced, merely for illustrative purposes, uncredited from a stock photo agency.
, an intelligent and interesting anthology of contemporary landscape work compiled by William A. Ewing (Thames & Hudson, 2014), I found myself wondering: is landscape photography over, finished with, exhausted?
In one sense, clearly not: more and more people are producing more and more landscape photographs, and this major photographic genre has also become an important ancillary to other activities, such as walking, climbing, travelling, and even the pursuit of spirituality and mental health. But... Sheer populousness is generally a sign that something has peaked, and that its exciting, pioneering days are over. Now that it has become necessary to arrange an orderly queue to the summit of Everest, you can be forgiven for suspecting that the challenge is not quite what once it was.
Once doubts had begun to creep in, other questions followed. Given how varied the world is, and how different people are, I asked myself: why do so many landscape photographs look exactly the same? And why are they so unregarded? To the extent that they can be bought by the yard from an agency, and published uncredited as decorative filler in a newspaper?
Southampton Mayflower Park
There is no denying that landscape photography has become very popular, of course; both to do, and to look at. I would think no other self-consciously "artistic" genre of photography is so widespread, with the exceptions of fashion and food. Since the advent of digital colour, there has been a tsunami / avalanche / deluge / (pick your own landscape-related simile) of outstanding landscape images of every conceivable kind. From the highest, snowiest peaks to the grimmest, most litter-strewn edgelands, someone will have parked a high-resolution camera on a tripod and composed something that is, for however brief a moment, compellingly new.
Brief, because originality is inevitably followed by hundreds of "me too" imitators, few of whom will have improved on the pioneering work, a cycle of discovery and repetition that is repeated again and again until pretty much every accessible landscape has been photographed many times over, at every time of day, in every kind of weather, leading to a queasy sense of repletion. I mean, just enter "skye storr" into Google, and scroll through the images. Depressing, isn't it? Travel has become cheap and easy, the world is finite, and so are the places to stand and admire its beauty. Even the relatively recent novelty of aerial drone photography has worn pretty thin surprisingly quickly; it has already become just the same-old same-old, following that same cycle of discovery and copy-cat repetition ad nauseam.
When it comes to art, democratic inclusiveness has never really been a useful evaluative benchmark. Art is an essentially elitist pursuit. Or rather, it is when it comes to art as outcome. If instead we choose to regard art-making as an activity which, regardless of the quality of the outcome, is capable of refining and advancing our aesthetic, social, and spiritual instincts and impulses, then clearly it's something which as many people as possible should be encouraged to do. Yes, get out there with your brushes, paints, cameras, sketchbooks, whatever turns you on, and just do it, in the same participative spirit that animates sport and exercise, whereby millions do yoga or zumba, play football or tennis, walk, cycle, and jog; why, you can even train for a marathon if you're the goal-oriented sort. Of course! But the gold standard of anything is always about outcome. Of 60,000 participants, who will actually win the London Marathon? Will they have broken a record?
Bristol Sea Mills after flooding
So how has the predictable same-old-sameness of what has come to count as "gold standard" landscape photography come about? For a start, I don't think it's a false impression that very many, if not most landscape photographers seem to share an identity: male, middle-aged, bearded, a bit weather-beaten and scruffy, and fond of solitary pursuits. But then, these do tend to be the sort of people who find themselves out in the world at dawn or at dusk, having endured rain and cold or heat and thirst to lug many pounds of expensive kit into the wilderness, just for the prospect of a decent photograph. Plus, in what is still a very "gendered" world, landscape photography is one of few outlets for masculine self-expression that combines nicely with physical engagement with the outdoors and that very male obsession with gear and craft. In the end, although there are many people who like to look at landscape photographs – they do make a nice calendar – there are far fewer who are prepared to go out there and get actual landscape all over their shoes and clothes in order to make them.
So perhaps landscape photographs look so similar simply because the people making them are so similar? Might encouraging more, different demographics to want to get "out there" make a difference? Would they end up in different places, with different gear, and with a different point of view? It's certainly a thought. But that initial desire to go out and play in the wind, rain, and mud is both a crucial motivating factor and the main barrier to entry, obviously. Provided, of course, that your definition of "landscape" is restricted to picturesque and remote semi-wilderness. Other vistas are available.
One way to get past the saturation point of sameness is gimmickry. Some landscapists have managed to break free of photo-purist objections to digital manipulation, as well as the slightly bonkers obsession with sunrises and sunsets, and various other hidebound "camera club" traditions relating to landscape photography; the exclusive use of wide-angle lenses, for example. But these newer approaches still have a tendency to converge on well-worn paths, on certain "looks". On a visit to our local hospital I was struck by a row of impressionistic landscape prints running down one corridor. These are now quite old Рprobably lithographs made in the 1980s Рbut they have more than a slight resemblance to a lot of "new" landscape photography being done, for example, with the use of overlaid texture layers in Photoshop, or in-camera effects like multiple exposures or ICM ("intentional camera movement", a name I always find hilarious). Scratchy, spattered, blotchy, blurry, painterly: these are well-established clich̩s of art-school print-making, and no less of a clich̩ when achieved by new means or arrived at by a different evolutionary pictorial path. As with the law, ignorance of art history is no excuse if your ambition is to be taken seriously as an artist. Too many photographers only follow photography.
Southampton Common, Cemetery Lake
Sadly, getting somewhere new in picture-making is even harder than finding somewhere new in the landscape to photograph, and really has everything to do with developing a strong personal sensibility and very little to do with technique. You can joggle your camera all you like, but it is no substitute for the unique choices made by a visually-educated eye. Typically, landscape photography – despite the way it attracts the word "romantic" to itself – is actually rather classical at heart, in the sense that it is largely about the imitation of established models and masters, and thus has a tendency to produce "school of" works. It never ceases to amaze me, for example, how many
Michael Kenna tribute acts there are at work out there, shamelessly reproducing his signature moves with long exposures, trees, fences, and snow. Hey, what's the big deal? I can do that, too! (Yes, you can,
now...).
Like 19th century academic painting, conventional gold-standard landscape photography is polished, highly-wrought, rather rule-bound, and suffused by a strong tendency to idealize. A truly dedicated landscape photographer doesn't simply document what happened to be there when they happened to be there, the way you or I might, but studies the times of sunrise and moonrise, waits for the right weather and time of day, and thinks nothing of revisiting the same remote site on multiple occasions until conditions are just right. Just right, that is, to invest a photograph of a landscape with certain supplementary properties, which can be summed up with one word: wow. But, inevitably, photographs of such rarely-observed syzygies in which all the elements are in perfectly picturesque alignment are by definition a freak, a distortion of reality, especially when amplifed by a taste for over-saturated colours and apocalyptic skies.
Have another look at those images of the Old Man of Storr, for example: exactly what planet were they made on? Clearly, there is a landscape photography "look" that is rather different from the appearance of any actual landscape, and it is this look that wannabe landscape photographers aspire to, not least because it wins competitions; even ones that claim to be looking beyond the usual overcooked clichés, like the Natural Landscape Photography Awards. I discussed this at length in my post about the results of the first NLPA competition in 2021 (
Extreme Locations & Iconic Conditions), so I won't repeat what I wrote there, other than to say this:
"An unfortunate side-effect of all competitions is that the virtues perceived and admired by the judges in their chosen winners tend to be noted and imitated by the thousands of aspirants seeking the validation of a competition win, or in pursuit of more social media 'likes'. Hey, look, I can do that, too!". (Yes, you can,
now...).
Southampton Holyrood Church
Then there is that question of the lack of regard for and the disposability of landscape photographs, as exemplified by their uncredited use as illustrative filler in a newspaper review. Need an illustration of "Brontë Country"? A search on the stock photo agency Alamy for "bronte country" yields over 5,000 images; "north york moors" 25,000. Phew... But that one there will do nicely; no, it doesn't matter who made it, just pay the fee and credit the agency. I'm reminded of the discovery of Japanese woodblock prints by European artists in the 19th century, little enough regarded in Japan that they were used as packing in crates of exported porcelain. In Europe it didn't matter that the individual signatures couldn't be read, and a Hiroshige print distinguished from one by Hokusai; what mattered was that exciting "japoniste"
look they shared, and which offered a stimulating way forward from the conventions of academic painting.
Of course, the pursuit of originality of vision, individual renown, exhibitions, and publication is an inherently quixotic enterprise, these being goals that few are ever likely to achieve, especially using an essentially anonymous technique like photography in a field as overpopulated as landscape. Besides, an imitative classicism does have its own well-defined, achievable satisfactions and, like running the London Marathon, the training, the participation, and the receipt of the equivalent of a "finisher's" medal – having your work accepted into a stock photo agency, perhaps? – can be reward enough. Ten years of innocence and experience on from my original combative post, I feel less inclined to be dismissive of such realisable ambitions.
In the end, it's no surprise that one competent photographer's rendering of classic subject matter in the classic landscape photography manner Рwhether it be (yawn) a stand of receding birch-tree trunks, or the Old Man of Storr, or Tuscan hillsides in raking sunlight, or Proven̤al lavender fields, or (zzzz) autumn leaves, or mountain tops catching the sunrise, etc., etc. Рwill be pretty indistinguishable from any other's. For all the effort that will have gone into getting the shot, however spectacular and hard-won, the result is generally just one more ephemeral, calendar-quality piece of eye-candy, a picture that has little to say beyond bearing witness to the undeniable fact that Рdespite humanity's best efforts to trash the place, and nature's escalating attempts to burn us out Рin certain combinations of lighting, weather, and time of day some parts of the world can still be very beautiful indeed. In a word: wow. The photographer Рwhose name you may never even discover Рhas spared you the effort of trekking out there yourself, and the probable disappointment of seeing the place in a less than flattering light.
Something which, as I say, I'm less inclined to disparage today than I was a decade ago. I'm probably still incurably quixotico-romantic in outlook, but perhaps the older Goethe wasn't so far off the mark when he declared "I call the classical health and the romantic sickness" (Conversations with Eckermann, April 2 1829), although I think what he really meant was that he called the healthy classical, and the sickly romantic. Whatever, I doubt that he had envisioned that the end purpose of a "healthy" strategy would be to dump one's lookalike work into a tank into which anyone could dip their bucket for a small fee, or indeed one in which AI could splash about "training" itself, absolutely free of charge.
So, to return to my original question: is landscape photography over, finished with, exhausted? No, not yet, but like me it is very tired, and could do with a holiday and a change of scene...
Winchester, bridge near Hockley Viaduct
1. A joke I was once told:
A: You know what would improve that landscape shot?
B: No, what?
A: A JCB in the foreground...
B: What, a big yellow digger? Are you mad?
A: No, not a digger, a Joe Cornish Boulder.
Needless to say, I had removed this joke from the version published in "On Landscape"...
