When I returned from India in a jet-lagged fog at the start of the month, I was uncertain as to whether any of the photos I'd taken were good. The point of the trip was to attend a wedding, so the first week was a blur of stops at sites along the Golden Triangle, with lots of laughter and conversation with friends but not conducive to long, thought-out photo sessions. I'd barely had a chance to review what I'd shot at the end of each day, and gnawing at my subconscious was the underlying notion I hadn't got it: India's colour palette, the dizzying mix of textures, the stark contrast between modern luxury and rustic pastoralism. In fact, I was so discouraged I put-off editing. And put it off. And put it off.

Sometime in that haze, my father suggested we watch the Indie flick 'Hell or High Water' on a Friday, family-movie night. A visual artist himself, within ten minutes of screen-time I paused the movie to remark to him about its extraordinarily tight framing, which he agreed on. Stark, wide-angle landscapes are juxtaposed by what reviewer Bill Desowitz calls 'dark, claustrophobic interiors'; interiors made all the more stifling because the visual convention of ensuring your entire subject is 'in-shot' was thrown out the window. Cowboy hats vary between hardly in the frame to cut-off, Chris Pine's knees are visually capped in conversation with his career criminal brother, and during the film's initial getaway scene, each brother has his head alternatingly clipped, door-frames nearly absent. The strategy is predominant in dialogue scenes with the overall effect of intensifying action and portrayed emotions—i.e. you feel as though you occupy the impossible third seat next to Pine's character because ostensibly that is what you would see if you were in the car. I liked it—its an innate, stylistic tendency of my own. And one I've become increasingly aware of as I try to improve my craft because I'd like to be more than a just a one trick pony.

Brick layers at Fatehpur Sikri, Uttar Pradesh, India

When I did finally sit down to edit, the first thing I was drawn to in proofing was a certain quality of India's light, admittedly a consequence at the time of the year we travelled from winter coal-burning and year-round exhaust fumes. It has a warm milkiness like the yogurt-based curries you consume while in-country, or tamarind powder—a perfect contrast to azure skies. But on further editing what I've come to realize is the source of my anxiety is a change in framing: all of a sudden I'm placing my subjects centred and perpendicular to the viewer in a boxed-in, boxy fashion. It's marks a stylistic departure for me, both the unintended consequence of snapping shots through a moving bus window but also something deliberately undertaken at historic sites and on the street. Overall I'm happy with the paradigmatic shift, as I'm hopeful it evokes an emotional response in the viewer not dissimilar to the intensity of Pine's cramped car.

Birds on the roof of a bus, Rajasthan, India

Muse: a word that conjures up all manner of sins.

In season one of Anthony Bourdain's Parts Unknown, chefs Dave McMillian and Frank Morin discuss what they call 'painful nostaligia' that informs both their menu choices at 'Joe Beef', located Montreal, as well as their day-to-day joie de vivre—all the while noshing on artery-clogging helpings of seared foie gras with shaved truffle. This post-ice fishing lunch is served on vintage tableware with vintage cutlery in a bona fide ice-fishing shack, complete with old-school etiquette and prepared anecdotes for conversation; waning praxis in the art of (fine) dining. It is a mixture of Old-World romanticism and rugged Canadiana, heavily embellished. The juxtaposition is stark and wonderfully over-the-top; a contrast I hope to imbue in my still lifes, though in an understated way.

Conscious effort is put into placing 'New World' items alongside what is decidedly 'Old World' fare/aesthetic. My primary inspirations are Spanish bodegónes (Cotán, Zurbarán, Melendez), with an occasional nod to Flemish Baroque still lifes through a vanitas element (inclusion of a fly, beginnings of rot). So 'Old World' fruit—limes, persimmons—is shot with a tanned skunk, purchased at Robertson's Trading Co. in La Ronge, Saskatchewan, or hung cabbage (see Cotán) is photographed with ruffed grouse killed by myself or my husband—again in northern Saskatchewan. They are 'painfully' nostalgic insofar as they 'recreate' something that never was: deeply personal and contrived Canadiana. And, if I'm honest with myself, they invariably include game not just because it adds a textural component to each image, but also because my 'Canadiana' is informed by a childhood spent on the prairies, with a father who hunted and trained bird dogs.

An assistant looks on at the Canadian National Spaniel Field Trial Championships near Calgary, AB, 2010 — An assistant looks on at the Canadian National Spaniel Field Trial Championships near Calgary, AB, 2010

The aesthetic appeal of hunting is obvious though not often directly stated, which is why brands like Barbour successfully market field jackets with 'game' pockets to city dwellers who have no idea of their stated purpose. To wake up on a crisp fall morning and walk through sepia-toned hills, or to lie staring up through a crack in the goose blind at a cool blue sky, leaves an indelible mark on a person's subconscious. The unnatural oranges and reds of hunting garb contrast with an all-white or all-brown backdrop to an overall surreal effect. As a child I was something of a novelty on the hunt because most farm fathers don't take their girls hunting. The stated reason was gun safety; however, the unspoken/latent rationale has more to do with cultural mores around what girls should or should not be exposed to—death, possible macabre, the cost of meat-eating. I still remember the intense satisfaction of my first (and clean) kill, the sound of the deer's hooves crunching snow immediately prior, the mottled brown and white of the dip in the valley where I lay in snow-covered cacti, just as I remember the snow and Canada geese symmetrically lined up for plucking in muted and long mid-October light.

All of this informs my Canadian bodegón: a romantic indulgence in sentimentality. Like foie gras—on china—in the backwoods.

State of Rajasthan, India - Clicking Come 'Hell or High Water' in the Face of Self-Doubt

Lashburn, Saskatchewan - Towards A Canadian 'Bodegón'

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