(as recorded by Heloise Ruen)

HR:
People often say your photographs feel both timeless and modern — as if they belong to an older tradition but are somehow unmistakably current. How do you think about that balance?

DB:
It’s something I’m always aware of. I came out of film and the darkroom, so my sense of tone, structure, and restraint comes from there. But I don’t chase nostalgia — I want the print to feel alive in the present. My goal is to create images that hold a quiet intensity, something that feels inevitable when you see it on the wall.

HR:
Your work feels deeply rooted in place — especially the Great Lakes and the Erie region. What draws you to this landscape?

DB:
It’s where I live and what I know best. Presque Isle is endlessly changing — fog, light, wind, sand, ice — all in flux. I can walk there a hundred times and never find it the same. Photographing it isn’t about discovery anymore; it’s about recognition. You wait until what you’ve always felt finally appears in front of you.

HR:
Do you plan your photographs in advance or work more intuitively in the field?

DB:
Both, really. The camera only works if the idea has already formed. I spend time walking, sketching, thinking about structure and light. When something in the landscape aligns with that inner picture, I’m ready. But you also need to let go of control — the best moments arrive on their own terms.

HR:
Your prints have an extraordinary level of clarity and depth. How do you approach the technical side of printing, especially for large acrylic pieces?

DB:
Every print is treated as a finished work of art—meticulously prepared from capture to mounting. For the large acrylic works, I rely on high-resolution capture, sharp lenses, and precise exposure—so there’s no need to rescue detail later. We test papers, mounts, and finishes until the material disappears and only the image remains.

HR:
Let’s talk about post-processing. How much manipulation happens once the image is captured?

DB:
Every photograph begins with what’s already there. I stay close to what could be achieved in a traditional darkroom—adjusting tones, structure, and balance to guide the eye and preserve mood. I remove sensor dust or the occasional stray branch, but I don’t replace skies or fabricate elements that weren’t in the frame. Some images include stronger artistic manipulation, but those are immediately evident and always noted in the image description. It’s art, not documentary, and I want that to be clear.

HR:
Understood. On the technical side, AI-based upscaling tools are becoming popular for preparing large acrylic mounts. Do you use them?

DB:
No—we rely on high-resolution cameras first, so there’s rarely a need to upscale. This is the only area where AI could be a useful tool, since it’s not a creative process but a technical one—simply enlarging what already exists. Only the largest works, something in the range of eight to twelve feet wide, could ever benefit from that. The problem is that AI can still introduce artifacts or hallucinated details. So for now, we use high-resolution capture as our foundation, then traditional software upscaling when absolutely necessary. AI remains under testing, with no current plans to implement it in finished artworks.

HR:
And what about AI for concept development—has it ever crept into your creative process?

DB:
No. Thinking should start in your head, then on paper—never with an AI prompt. The camera, the sketch, the walk in the landscape—that’s where ideas live. My work depends on presence and perception, not suggestion. AI can imitate, but it can’t remember the wind on the lake or the smell of rain in sand.

HR:
That sense of presence comes through in the work. Even the most refined compositions still feel found, not built.

DB:
That’s the goal—to discover, not to design. My studio works toward balance, not perfection. Perfection is sterile. Balance feels alive.

HR:
Do you see your work as belonging more to photography or to fine art?

DB:
Both. The craft of photography is the foundation, but the intent is what moves it into fine art. A photograph becomes art when it carries more than information—when it holds emotion, memory, and structure together in a way that feels whole. I’m not trying to prove what’s real; I’m trying to show what it felt like to stand there.

HR:
One last question—what keeps you photographing after all these years?

DB:
Because the light never repeats. After forty years, I’ve learned that the work isn’t about collecting images; it’s about paying attention. Every photograph is a conversation with time—fleeting, imperfect, but worth listening to again.

Interview recorded and edited by Heloise Ruen for the studio archives.

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