I think most people who take up photography – whether professionally or as a hobby – dream of travelling to distant places, discovering and perhaps documenting something unique. A different culture, where colours, languages and food take forms unlike those we're used to. Places where you slow down to observe, and where the people around you may find you as unfamiliar as you find them. Perhaps that's part of the allure. You notice someone, smile, and they smile back. A bond forms, whether between you and another person or between you and a place, preserved in memory and perhaps in a photograph.
I've always felt lucky about where I live. Five minutes from my house, I have almost endless opportunities to explore the forest and its many lakes, rivers and hills. The mountains lie further inland in Norway. Where I live, we're left with curves, rolling clouds and a landscape that feels a little like a smooth gradient. There's plenty of beauty in this. When I take my bike into the forest, I'm always reminded of how special it is. How fresh the air feels. How quiet it is. Just me and nature.
Is it possible to capture some of that beauty? Is it possible to let others see some of that magic?
Photographing the ordinary beauty around us isn't necessarily easy. There's a place nearby that thrives in the golden hour like no other. Old trees have taken residence there, but like true Norwegians, they've kept their distance from one another, leaving space to breathe. I've returned to this place time and again, only to find that its beauty is nearly impossible to capture. Perhaps the trees prefer their solitude.
Other places are far more inviting, though not necessarily in sunlight. Sometimes it's darkness that makes the difference.
Take the photograph below. I took it at 6am at a local lake in Hurum. The lake isn't particularly special. It has a small hill behind it and a narrow peninsula with a few trees. But it is long and narrow, stretching from west to east. On certain mornings, mist gathers above the water before dawn, gradually dissipating as the sun warms the air. A gentle breeze carries the mist from one side of the lake to the other. On their own, the lake's features are unremarkable. But together, under the right conditions, they create something quite beautiful.
Or take Sollihøgda. A place we drive past on our way to our cabins, but rarely stop at. To most of us, the name brings to mind traffic jams, a winding road and carsick kids. Yet just 100 metres from that road is a farm. South of the farm, an open field gives way to a pine forest.
What makes Sollihøgda special to me is the way mist from Tyrifjorden to the north sometimes seems to meet warmer air from the direction of the Oslofjord to the south. Under the right conditions, the light across that field becomes something quite extraordinary.
Capturing the ordinary. A lake just five minutes from where I live can change personality as often as a teenager. Quiet and peaceful one day, cold and icy the next. I keep returning, because I never quite know which version of it I'll find.