THE  SACRED  LANDS
In the days of my youth it was my well-intentioned but extremely naive aspiration to capture on film the awe inspiring images of the tundra, that haunting and seductive world that looms high above the trees. How well I remember the day of my chastisement when I was alerted to the futility of this well-intentioned but foolish ambition. Eclipsed and teary-eyed before the majesty of an area of the Continental Divide, I became awakened to the fact that it was not me seeking to capture the wonders of the tundra but the wonders of the tundra seeking to capture me! 

I knew at that moment that the essence of these mystery-lands could never be captured, at least not by this photographer.  I have not taken any of these photographs. I have only received what Tundra was willing to give. For this I am grateful. Tundra has placed me under arrest and there is no indication that my captor will ease her grip upon my imprisoned heart. But in this, my incarceration, I have found true freedom and lasting peace. Over the years I have been privileged to cast my gaze upon this canvass of divine artistry. The arresting beauty of such flawless artwork has never left me. Before the power of such unutterable splendor I am left paralyzed and gasping for air. My hope is that these photographs reveal a small something of the essence of my own personal captivity.

I am simply and forever in love with Tundra’s alluring ways. I can no longer resist her call to jubilate on her sacred bedding. Oh how I cherish these lands that vacillate between heaven and hell, elegance and ferocity, poetry and cacophony! These lands are famed for their still small voices and their loud and nasty tempers. Little wonder that an insatiable love for these lands have tunneled their way into the very marrow of my soul! Only those comatose can remain indifferent before the glitter of such glory! Somewhere it is inscripturated that we were created from the dust of the earth. So overwhelming is my love for these rugged and lordly lands that I have pondered if it was not the dust of the tundra that was employed in the composition of my body and soul. I simply cannot extricate myself from the power of its pull. I find its call irresistible, its web a place I call home. There is something soothing about its severity, something beautiful about its brutality, something invigorating about its jaws of intense savagery. Oh how I love to nurse on the sacred wonders that emanate from these violent and untamed lands!

Lurking behind every picture is a story. Mine are no different. There are the tales of some blood, the tales of some anguish and the tales of some ineffable ecstasy. There are the haunting realities of hurricane force winds, the white fury of unrelenting blizzards and the frightful might of the lightning storm. But most of all I hope these photographs tell the tale of a simple but passionate love story. I hope my undying love for these lands is as obvious as my inability to capture on film the essence of their sacred wonder. For the heart of these hallowed grounds will never be captured by the genius of human technology, photography notwithstanding. I have never considered myself a good or a well-balanced photographer. I am simply and forever a child of the tundra. And if a little something of this has been communicated in the photographs of this, my imprisoned soul, I can ask for little more.

   John Marino