I like pictures with texture. Foreground, background, color, texture and, most importantly, balance–all five are, generally speaking though not entirely inclusive, necessary for a good picture. The rest is just individual epigenetic development. Or, to put another way, the “eye” through which someone grows up to look out and see the world. (You get all sorts of variation there.) The floors and walls of the woods in western and central Oregon have texture in spades, I think. Color, too. I can’t go there, look around for too long and not see something that catches my eye. It’s almost overwhelming.
Most of these scenes I feel like a lot of people would just walk right by. That’s maybe true. But more so than anywhere else I go, the forests of Oregon are museums of living art. They exhibit three-dimensional canvases on invisible slides almost ceaselessly as one moves through it, on the trails or off them, and you have only to look up and to keep moving to catch them. They have no curators and they have no informational pamphlets, but, without a doubt, they are museums, built by years and by the seasons, presented to anyone with a natural curiosity about the distinct, regional biomes around them (or the ones that exists in this particular designated ecosystem or geographic climate) or for those who just can’t stand the urban, the mundane and the repetitive.