Forest photography is a challenging art. I mention this regarding the photobook format, as the most significant complication of sequencing a book from a photographic forest yield is the difficulty of repetition. The question is, “How many photographs of trees can I look at without losing interest?” and “How much minute variation of a carpet of trees carries the interest of an audience?” and variations thereof. Some of these questions relate to the medium of the book, with its page count and the format that seeks narrative or change at some point to keep the reader/viewer from losing interest, unless it is specifically related to typologies. It differs from viewing the same images on the wall in an exhibition where the prints might be larger and more intoxicating in their quality. Despite an argument ensuing, this genre of photography is, in its multitude, often better placed on a wall than in a book, though there are exceptions.
Bernard Fuchs’s images of forests and pathways come to mind. Several of his books exhibit a somber, melancholic atmosphere that relates as much to the forest as it does to the artist himself. What I should mention with this observation is that I mean bodies of work that strictly use the forest as their subject matter. Therefore, I would not mention books by Maja Daniels, Terje Abusdal, Raymond Meeks, or others where the woods and forest are prominent. In those books, other components, particularly people, are added and peppered throughout, which changes how the book and its sequence operate. My observation is strictly about images of the forest, with minimal deviation.
It is a challenging pursuit because of the repetition mentioned and because what one sees in the forest often differs from how one sees a picture of it. This could undoubtedly be said for most photography, sure. Still, there is something particular about the grandeur of the natural world that photography, apart from sunsets, needs help with imitating. It is much easier to relate when I am on the street and see a similar photograph from the same position. When in nature, I always feel that there is no easy graft for distilling what is in front of me into an image, and I am trying to think of many artists that have managed this outside of J.W. Turner and his sea and cloud studies. That sublime understanding of nature is challenging to transmit into an image, especially a photographic image. Scale is an issue, and the sense of awe in the natural environment is incredibly hard to make apparent in a still photographic image.
With the artist Massimo Leardini, I often expect to find a human body in the work. His former books Elv, Viktoria, Scandinavian, In Between, Primitive, Iselin, and Viktoria W all consider the female nude in variation, sometimes with the Norwegian natural world, but often isolated to create sculptural gestures. Two other books of his work, Catarsi and El Tango en Buenos Aires, deal with different subjects, though I could argue that Catarsi is mainly consumed with sculpture. I point this out within the context of the shift of his forest (without body) subject matter in Nordmarka. I have some suspicions about the turn away from the body in this most recent book. Moving away from using the female form is noticeable, but that is not necessarily a problem as it allows the form of the book, particularly Ulf Nilsson’s design and Leardini’s continued interest in sculptural elements, to continue without the viewer having to address the female nude. Whereas I think Leardini handles the female nude with incredible achievement and sensitivity, perhaps 2024 still feels like a time when it is still risky to produce images of the female form shot by a man.
Addressing Nordmarka on its own, without the complications of the body and the author present, is fine. The above discussion needed to happen to think about how I view Leardini without his insistence on the female form. I am left with a similar resolve to his skillset, which was never in question. As I mentioned, forests are complex subject matter due to the limitations of variation in subject matter. Yet, in Nordmarka, there is quite a bit of variation, and the choice of papers and materials for the cover adds a significant amount of counterweight to the subject matter. Spoken, the book is lush, perhaps Edenic. Instead of wondering about the disappearance of a body, I am more inclined to think about places of natural wonderment and to discuss broader themes of ecology within the work. Of course, I could ascribe this as a book about camping as minor details circulate within the work about that motif. Still, the objects or pieces of camping accouterments are enabled through their sculptural/object manifestations. Instead of hammocks and pans, we find sculpture; the utility of the objects is of their aesthetic if not functional means.
Though this book is a bit of a surprise, I find the work calm, and it makes me contemplate how we see the world as an image and all the philosophical issues it raises. How do we understand scale and place when asked to view it in a static image? I found this similar to Jenia Frydland’s Entrance to Our Valley, Awoiska van der Molen’s in 2017, and more recently, Alexandre Miguel Maia’s 2023 book Enter the Forest (Kehrer). Historically, this tendency is found in quite a few Northern European books. There is a German fascination with Der Wald that surfaces in the work of Gerhard Richter, as well as general forest photobooks and albums that reflect on the topic of Heimat and mountaineering, which are slightly adjacent. This suggests that Leardini’s book fits into a few traditions but retains the pivotal element of his take or subjectivity. It is a refreshing detour from his investigation of the body, but I might be as bold to suggest that I hope it has not disappeared under the thicket and carpet floor forever.
