by Heloise Ruen

People often say Daniel's photographs feel both timeless and modern. Like they belong to an older tradition but are somehow unmistakably current. I ask him about that balance.

"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." His goal is to create images that hold a quiet intensity, something that feels inevitable when you see it on the wall.

His work centers on specific places. Presque Isle, Acadia, the White Mountains. The same locations, over and over. What draws him to photograph them repeatedly rather than chasing new landscapes?

"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."

But those other places pull him too. The differences matter.

"Presque Isle feels like a courtyard. You step out the door and it's there, small and easy to reach anywhere. Acadia is like a home garden, a big home garden. There's room to breathe. It has everything I love: ocean coast, pink granite, mountains to hike, Sand Beach for rolling waves, forests, moss-covered rocks, secret locations that only I know how to reach."

The White Mountains are different. "They demand planning. The scale is enormous. You can't just wander. You need to know where you're going, what the weather will do, how much daylight you have. It's wilderness in a way the others aren't."

Does he plan his photographs in advance or work more intuitively in the field?

"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."

That transition from film to digital must have shaped his approach.

"The darkroom taught me to think in terms of what's possible rather than what's easy. Burning, dodging, tonal control. You're interpreting the negative, not just reproducing it. Digital tools can do the same work, but the discipline comes from knowing what you're trying to say before you start adjusting anything. I'm still printing in my head before I touch the computer."

His prints have an extraordinary level of clarity and depth. The large acrylic pieces especially. How does he approach the technical side of printing?

"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."

We talk about post-processing. How much manipulation happens once the image is captured?

"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."

How does he know when an image is finished? When does he stop working on it?

"When I can't improve it anymore without damaging something essential. There's a moment when the adjustments begin to flatten the image rather than reveal it. That's when I step back. Sometimes I'll print a proof, live with it for a few days, then come back. If it still holds, it's done."

He works in limited editions. What does that mean to him beyond the practical considerations?

"It's a commitment to the work as physical object, not infinite reproduction. Each print represents a decision. This size, this paper, this finish. When an edition closes, that conversation ends. It also acknowledges that the places I photograph are themselves limited. Presque Isle won't look this way forever. The edition reflects that impermanence."

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

"That's the goal. To discover, not to design. I work toward balance, not perfection. Perfection is sterile. Balance feels alive."

Does he see his work as belonging more to photography or to fine art?

"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."

One last question. What keeps him photographing after all these years?

"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."

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