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“There’s a quality to Mark’s work that’s not simple to translate, but almost certainly stems from the intrinsic nature of being perpetually insatiable”
These words were written as part of the individual achievement review process while applying for the Undergraduate Research and Creative Achievement Scholarship Award during my years in undergrad. The professor who wrote them on my behalf had become a mentor of sorts for me over our years together. In my first year, I was called for a one-on-one meeting, and it was requested that I bring my portfolio for review. As we sit in the empty gallery room (which suddenly felt like an empty amphitheater) flipping through my previous works, I ready myself for what felt like an almost certain look of disapproval.
As we turn the final pages and finally make it to the end of the portfolio, the never-ending silence and overall feeling of scrutiny in the air is palpable — a feeling any scholar is likely familiar with. Instead of what I thought was an inevitable inquisition of what exactly I thought I was doing here in the first place, I hear “Mark, do you feel comfortable sharing a little about your personal story with me?”
And so, I did.
We talked about my growing up as a forgotten boy in a forgotten city, surrounded by lost souls. We talked about the traumas of abuse and the inherent burden of scarcity and neglect. We talked about escapism, internalized guilt and shame. We talked about responsibility and equity. We talked and talked and talked some more, relating on shared experiences and translating lessons learned from those that were unique. And after this enduring, emotional discussion, I finally get the critique promised from this meeting, albeit not in the way I was expecting:
“Mark, if your work tells me anything, it’s that your spirit stands in direct opposition to what you’re saying. These stories you tell will not define you, they’re not who you are. Continue to use them, as you’ve clearly been so far, but never let them define or limit you or your work. Should you decide to continue down this path, I only see great things.”
I was granted the URCAD award and graduated in 2015 with my BFA in Photography, but It was at this moment, during this conversation as a freshman in undergrad, where my story truly begins. I finally understood that my history is what brought me here, but is not who I am. This conversation taught me that criticisms about never being satisfied were, in fact, shining examples of a thirst for life. They represent the drive to experience more than I’m “supposed” to. The drive to understand more than I “should.” The drive to do more than previously thought possible. The drive to be more than. My story is my story. It has always been my story and will always be my story. But my story isn’t my all-encompassing and most important component. I am more than my story, and so are you.
The Beginning
Photography, at its core, is a documenting medium. Cameras are utilized to record what is in front of the lens, this is true. However, a camera in the hands of an artist becomes a medium of translation. Photography may be the quickest art form in the world, with most photographs being a record of time and place lasting hundredths or thousandths of a second. Imaging artists translate that tiny fraction of time into visual expressions of emotions, contemplations, and declarations. Time is fleeting, especially thousandths of seconds.
That conversation with my professor was many years ago, but images from that day often flicker in my mind, in hundredths and thousandths of seconds. That day, I learned to understand the art of perception and since then, I’ve learned that perception is a fickle beast to wrangle with. I’ve learned that things are never what they seem. And if they do turn out to be, in fact, exactly what they’re perceived to be, it’s never all that they are. Perception is not reality, rather perception is relative to circumstance. And so perhaps, if we take another look, and look harder this time, it’s possible to see ourselves, and each other, in a new light.
It wasn’t long after this conversation that I came across a collection of works by photographer Richard Mosse. Mosse photographed the ongoing war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo using Kodak Aerochrome film. Aerochrome film was discontinued in 2009 and was originally created as a means for military reconnaissance. It uses a special emulsion that is sensitive to lightwaves beyond the visible spectrum.
This was my first exposure to the world of infrared photography. The possibility to photograph using light that is invisible to humans was simply astonishing. I was captivated. This fascination was the beginning of my trajectory into a world largely unexplored. A frontier not yet fully realized, where the world was still waiting to be seen. A decade later, the enchantment is stronger than ever.
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Utilizing light outside of the visible spectrum remains a largely undocumented, underexplored, and underutilized photographic medium. This is especially true in the fine art world, where infrared photography is pigeonholed as a vanity process by some photographic purists. I thought: “how can this not be magic?” After countless months of feverishly researching optical physics, the historical photographic implications of infrared light and current technologies being adapted for photographic purposes, this is what I found:
Picture a rainbow, but not any rainbow. Picture the most perfect rainbow you can imagine. The most perfect rainbow possible will be a gradient of every color we can see. Collectively, these colors represent what is known as the visible spectrum of light. Simply, the colors of light that are visible to humans. For specific colors to be produced, the light needs to travel at a specific wavelength, generally measured in nanometers.
For example, perfect red lightwaves will have a wavelength of around 700nm and perfect violet lightwaves will have a wavelength of around 400nm. Every color between red and violet will be assigned its own specific wavelength as well. So, in summation, human eyes are capable of interpreting light with wavelengths between roughly 400nm and roughly 700nm. Every color anyone has ever seen exists between these wavelengths.
There are plenty of electromagnetic waves that exists outside of this range, however. Some electromagnetic waves can have a wavelength of up to 555 meters. That’s 555,000,000,000nm (the length of 3 football fields). These waves travel the furthest distance and are how your AM radio signal is transmitted into the most remote locations. The electromagnetic waves used in microwave ovens to warm your food have a wavelength of 1cm to 1mm (1,000,000nm). Infrared and ultraviolet radiation bookend the visible spectrum before moving into more potent electromagnetic waves, like x-rays (used in internal body imaging) and gamma rays (radioactive).
The technology exists today to capture these wavelengths of light outside of the visible spectrum in a photograph, though it is mainly used by scientific institutions (NASA) and for various military operations (heat vision, x-ray).
I had to explore this, and it wasn’t long before I modified my camera to block out all visible light and allow in only light that is invisible to humans, posing the question: What was the world like outside the rainbow?
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There was no guidebook on infrared photography. No sage who had mastered the craft as a mentor, and no extensive YouTube collection to learn from. I was on my own, and I was okay with that. I set out to truly begin my journey into the unseen in a big way. Over the next two summers, I drove over 20,000 miles across North America, photographing every great land I could manage.
Enter: Glacier National Park.
The feeling of standing at the peak of a mountain for the first time is ineffable. Silence leaves room for a reverie of pure fascination. Stand still enough and you can hear the earth breathing, quietly inhaling power to exhale wisps of light fog across the mountaintops. Being a small part of an unfettered, primal landscape for the first time is transcendental.
Glacier was the first destination on a journey that would span years and decades. It was here that the first Infraterra photograph was captured. It was here that I learned how to satiate my intrinsic perpetually insatiable nature. Standing at the top of this mountain, I was able to see the world for the first time, twice. First, in its “natural” form, but then, just a few moments later, again, from outside the rainbow.
This double dose of firsts, repeated over the next 20,000 miles left me exhausted, in the most marvelous of ways. I felt as if I had just uncovered a secret world. A parallel dimension operating in the exact space we walk through every day. A new realm of existence we didn’t even know we already lived in.
Infraterra leverages the power of infrared photography to offer a new lens to see the world. A tool for us to see past our realities and broaden our perceptions. It begs us to question what we think we know of the world, and consistently proves that we know less than we think. It presents us an opportunity to change our perspective and see the world in a new light.
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Outside the Rainbow offers a transformative opportunity. Quite literally, infrared portraits offer a chance to witness a version of ourselves that’s never been seen before, but has always been there. Bearing witness to ourselves in a novel light demands courage and conviction, but the rewards are complementary to the stakes.
In the “infraworld”, light penetrates the skin. Blemishes and scars become obsolete and instead, are replaced by the venous system. Surface-level indications of heritage, race, ethnicity, trauma, affluence, caste and creed are traded for a lustrous, resplendent complexion. Together, these traits make each of us delightfully unique.
However, many of us are burdened by our designations. The ones that pervade the longest and most prominently are generally the same ones we never asked for in the first place. The very traits that define us as individuals are often the same ones which perceptually confine us to our societal boxes.
But we are more than these traits.
We are more than our sexual orientations.
We are more than our disabilities.
We are more than our passions.
We are more than our genders.
We are more than our fears.
We are more than our flaws.
We are more than.It’s only after we strip away the societally-induced clamor that fills our minds that we can truly see what’s beneath the surface. Here, we are superhuman.
Shed your designations and shine, from Outside the Rainbow.
