Landscape: Wet Plate Collodion

Each landscape is more than a view, it is a conversation with place, with time, and with memory.

The collodion process slows everything down. The camera lingers, the light shifts, the plate holds its breath. What emerges isn’t a flawless record, but something stranger, more truthful, a fragment of earth and sky etched in silver, alive with imperfections.

Old stone walls, weathered barns, quiet lanes, and forgotten fields: these are not just subjects, but witnesses. They carry the weight of years, of lives lived and gone, and in collodion they seem to speak, softly, but with depth.

These photographs are not hurried postcards. They ask you to pause, to see, to feel the silence within them. The ghosts of the past are present here, not in sorrow, but in endurance, in the stillness of ruins, the persistence of trees, the eternal drift of clouds.

For me, this is about reverence. About listening to what remains, and preserving it in a way that feels both ancient and enduring. These images are less about what the world looks like, and more about how it remembers itself.

Something not fleeting, but steadfast. Something to be held, and kept, and carried forward.