Some of the world’s most compelling places are those altered by industry, war, time and the calamity that we bring by simply living here. The photographs from UnEarth honor the complexity of this conundrum.
Landscape is everywhere. When we think of it as the subject of art, we conjure sylvan vistas (Claude Monet, Ansel Adams). But when we say industrial landscape, the words grate, fit together uncomfortably; we see rusting architectural hulks littering vast toxic wastelands.
In my lifetime the world has (naturally) changed. So my way of seeing it has evolved. Extractive industry, oil rigs, fracking and open pit mines–to photographers these are now as cogent as an iconic New Mexico moonrise or the ephemeral vail of a cascading waterfall. Beauty in nature resides everywhere, and human nature shapes much of what we relish in the world.
We trust photography to render faithful portraits of our families, friends, ourselves. Though the people in my pictures (when they appear at all) are as tiny as bugs, I see my work as portraiture too, as cultural autobiography. The cities we build, the rivers we dam, the mountains we level tell clearly what we care about. What we do matters hugely, and our legacy of monumental artifacts describes us perfectly.
In the landscape, we all know the elation, the momentary disorientation when we turn a corner near the rim of a mile-deep canyon, and are snagged by the implausible vista unfurling just past our shoes. This chasm before us may have been cut over eons by the Colorado River, or in a few decades by blasting crews and haul trucks mining copper ore. Either way, at that instant the scale and atmosphere grab us and raw beauty pulls us in. Hooked, we begin to think about what we behold. Whether that is splendor or plunder, we are in momentary awe.
UnEarth savors this paradox: we turn the earth inside out pursuing treasure; in that ravenous frenzy, we are shown beauty we neither expect nor deserve.
Martin Stupich
June, 2017
Some of the world’s most compelling places are those altered by industry, war, time and the calamity that we bring by simply living here. The photographs from UnEarth honor the complexity of this conundrum.
Landscape is everywhere. When we think of it as the subject of art, we conjure sylvan vistas (Claude Monet, Ansel Adams). But when we say industrial landscape, the words grate, fit together uncomfortably; we see rusting architectural hulks littering vast toxic wastelands.
In my lifetime the world has (naturally) changed. So my way of seeing it has evolved. Extractive industry, oil rigs, fracking and open pit mines–to photographers these are now as cogent as an iconic New Mexico moonrise or the ephemeral vail of a cascading waterfall. Beauty in nature resides everywhere, and human nature shapes much of what we relish in the world.
We trust photography to render faithful portraits of our families, friends, ourselves. Though the people in my pictures (when they appear at all) are as tiny as bugs, I see my work as portraiture too, as cultural autobiography. The cities we build, the rivers we dam, the mountains we level tell clearly what we care about. What we do matters hugely, and our legacy of monumental artifacts describes us perfectly.
In the landscape, we all know the elation, the momentary disorientation when we turn a corner near the rim of a mile-deep canyon, and are snagged by the implausible vista unfurling just past our shoes. This chasm before us may have been cut over eons by the Colorado River, or in a few decades by blasting crews and haul trucks mining copper ore. Either way, at that instant the scale and atmosphere grab us and raw beauty pulls us in. Hooked, we begin to think about what we behold. Whether that is splendor or plunder, we are in momentary awe.
UnEarth savors this paradox: we turn the earth inside out pursuing treasure; in that ravenous frenzy, we are shown beauty we neither expect nor deserve.
Martin Stupich
June, 2017
Bingham pit with cloud, 2012
(24" x 26") This view of the Bingham open pit copper mine in Utah shows the context for the following fourteen pictures–all made from the same hundred-square-foot patch of dirt at the pit's south rim.
The Bingham pictures are tied to the ASARCO project (the preceding portfolio) since, in 1903, Guggenheim Exploration Company (later ASARCO) financed the world's first important pit here. Its success seeded other mining and smelting ventures, from the Klondike to central Mexico and South America.
Bingham pit, September, 2012
(60" x 16")
Bingham pit, September, 2012
(60" x 18")
Bingham mine after the landslide of April, 2013
(60" x 18")
Bingham pit, wide view with clouds, after the landslide of April, 2013
(60" x 16")
Blue dusk, northwest slope of Bingham pit, 2012
(24" x 35")
North terraces of Bingham pit with blast, late afternoon, 2012
(35" x 24")
Bingham pit with switchbacks, haul trucks and power shovels, 2012
(35" x 24")
Bingham pit, east terraces with shadow, 2012
(35" x 24")
Bingham pit, aftermath of landslide, 2013 [#5925]
(24" x 35")
Bingham pit, aftermath of landslide, 2013 [#5902]
(35" x 24")
Bingham pit, aftermath of landslide, 2013 [#5929]
(24" x 24")
Bingham pit, staging area at rim, 2013 [#5967]
(35" x 24")
Dawn breaking on west slope, Bingham pit, 2013 [#5875)
(60" x 24")
Bingham mine north rim staging area, 2012
(24" x 35")
Morenci open pit copper mine, Arizona, 1989 (top) and 2012
(Each panorama ca. 16"x 80") These two photographs, made nearly a quarter century apart from the same vantage point, show a landscape dramatically transformed. The mountain in the upper left of the top image, by 2012, had been removed. Crushed, pulverized and smelted for its copper, its remnant tailings fill the center of the lower image. Compare landmarks in the background of each photograph to appreciate the extent of alteration in the foreground.
Morenci open pit copper mine, Arizona, 1989
(various to 30"x 90") This, and the other black and white Morenci images, were made on the same February day in 1989. Blasting in the pit accounts for varying degrees of clarity or obscurity due to rising dust.
Center of Morenci pit, Arizon, 1989 [3 vert. panels]
(various to 20"x 48") This panorama was shot a few minutes before the controlled blast, whose dust hangs in the atmosphere in the following picture.
Morenci pit, Arizona, after blast; dust rising, 1989 [3 vert. panels]
(various to 20" x 48")
Morenci open pit copper mine, 2012 [#2997]
(various to 21"x 90")
Morenci open pit copper mine, with water tank, Arizona 2012
(various to 20'x 80")
Morenci open pit mine, long view with tailings, 2102 [120422]
(various to 24"x 86")
Berkely open pit copper mine, flooded, 2013 [#5982]
(24"x35")
Berkely open pit copper mine, flooded, 2013 [#6020]
(24"x 35") Groundwater floods the pit, since its closure in the 1980s. Its toxicity is legend, with a copper content so high that it is economically "mined" with specially designed pumping and filtering equipment.
Virginia City, Nevada from its cemetery, 1983
(various to 12"x 45") Virginia City was built atop the legendary Comstock Lode, whose silver funded the Union army during the American Civil War. Adits, shafts, tailings and head frames still dot this historic landscape.
Newly rediscovered abandoned adits, Virginia City, Nevada, 1980 [6x7 diptych]
(to 10' x 20") Square set timber bracing was a 19th century innovation first widely used on the Comstock. It required vast amounts of timber, but was efficient and greatly reduced tunnel collapses and casualties. Re-exposed to outside air after being sealed for more than a century, the timbers began immediately to oxidize, "burn" without flame, weaken, and give out.
Sutro Tunnel, 1980
(to 20" x 30") This ingenious six-mile long tunnel drained excess groundwater from mine shafts 1,640 feet beneath Virginia City, diverting it to the Carson Valley near Dayton, Nevada.
Hoppers, American Flat Mill Ruins, Nevada, 1980
(20"x 30")
Con-Imperial Pit, Gold Hill, Nevada, 1980
(to 18"x 27")
Con-Imperial Pit, Gold Hill, Nevada, 1983
(to 10'x 40")
Star of David with barbed wire, 1980
(to 18"x 27") This icon, probably repaired often since the late 19th century, marked the small Jewish section of the Virginia City cemetery.
Washoe Lake from Mount Rose, 1983
(to 24"x 72") The Comstock mining district is at the horizon; its domestic water supply is behind the camera, 1,300 feet higher than Virginia City. After 125 years, wooden flumes, iron tanks, rusting iron pipes and gravity still supply water to the town 21 miles from the intake.
In this photo, Reno is at the far left; Lake Tahoe, thirty miles distant and 2,000 feet higher, is at the far right.
Steamboat fissure, Steamboat, Nevada, 1983
(to 12"x 48") This photo was made on the site of the 1867 Timothy H. O'Sullivan photograph.
Café with mine tailings, at Ruth, Nevada, 1983
(to 8"x 30")
Tufa on south shore of Mono Lake, 1983
(to 9"x 50") Though not technically a mining site, I include this photo in UnEarth to acknowledge its place in a landscape shaped by extractive industry. These tufa pilars were formed beneath the waves of a vast lake which once dominated the Owens Valley. After Los Angeles diverted Sierra snowpack runoff, Mono Lake began to shrink. Its surface area and depth now resemble a mere puddle in a vast alkali basin.