Using blur, soft focus, and intentional distortion, the aim is to dissolve the boundary between the real and the imagined. Many of my images take on an ethereal, ghost-like quality—not to obscure nature, but to uncover the delicate tensions already within it: fragility and resilience... These hidden gestures the natural world offers when you take the time to listen. 

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Much of my work lingers in the quiet seam between autumn and winter, when the forest exhales its last warmth before giving in to frost. It’s a threshold season—where colour drains into muted tones, where breath becomes visible, and where the world seems to pause just long enough to witness its own transformation. This is the landscape I return to most often. These colder places feel like a kind of home for me: the dimming woods, the brittle grasses, the metallic scent of the first ice on stone.

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In winter, the balance between fragility and resilience shifts. What was once delicate becomes sharpened. What was once soft grows fierce. The cold carries a kind of wild companionship—an uncanniness that calls to you from the shadows, much like the wolves who belong there. It’s a beauty that is both willing and wary, a presence that asks you to stay but never promises comfort. And still, I remain, drawn in—like a magpie captivated by the glitter of light on ice.

 

Angela Carter captures something of this winter tension in The Company of Wolves: “I’m sorry. I never knew a wolf could cry.” That single line holds the paradox I find in the forest’s coldest months—the hardened surface and the hidden ache beneath it. For all its severity, winter reveals unexpected tenderness. When the white veil falls, the landscape softens again, and its quiet gestures feel newly intimate, newly alive.

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My photographs are my way of listening to these shifts: the thaw within the freeze, the vulnerability within the wild, the shimmer within the dark. - Jody Shannon

 

“The moonlight spilled like milk on the snow.”