A Cherished Embrace of Iron and Water

A look into an ongoing project about place, time, and attention set in Glendale, SC.

I jolted awake, sitting upright and disturbing my partner as I felt the sun’s first weak glow on my face. The chill of the morning crept with goosebumps up my skin as I pulled on layers of clothes hurriedly, my internal clock having awoken me a few minutes later than the alarm I forgot to set would have. Soon after: a quick goodbye, a squealing car belt, a frozen windshield, a metal tripod frigid with the dawn air, and I was driving the few minutes it took to get to Glendale Shoals.

I’ve been photographing in Glendale for almost a full year, beginning with my artist residency at the Goodall Environmental Center at Wofford College. I love artist residencies for many reasons, and they’ve always been moments of pivot for me. My first artist residency at Makers Circle in Marshall, NC, ultimately led to my living in this same space as a long term resident. My second at the Peter Bullough Foundation helped me flesh out my goals as an independent arts educator, and I found my practice at its most productive during my time there.

At Glendale, I found myself sinking deeper into what I want to do with my life. During the residency, I gave a lecture, hosted a workshop, and got to spend time with students in the environmental science department. I found myself falling in love with Glendale in a way I didn’t expect, from drowsing beneath wisteria in early spring mornings, to cold plunging in Lawson’s Creek, and then meeting my current partner, which has led to getting to spend more time in Glendale.

As I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot in front of the Goodall Center, I felt my muscles recoil from the cold. My hips creaked as I rocked down the path along the garden and lurched onto the creek rocks near the dam. The sun had not quite broken the treeline yet, and I found myself in awe of the frail light illuminating the mist which appeared as an exhalation of creek spilling over the shoals.

During my artist residency, I dug into the history of the land, which had initially been a place of trade for Indigenous people, and then went through cycles of industrialization until the closing of the mill and dissolution of the mill town in the 1900s. Glendale bears the marks that are common to post-industrial rural towns in America, the ones that I recognize from the towns I grew up in. Yet, there is a quality of sweetness to this place, a sense that it is cherished even through the challenging changes of both past and the ever present American threat of development.

I leaned against a tree, watching the moon beyond the dam and the gentle pink glow of morning light upon rushing water. The creek absorbed all other sound, creating an unusual quiet. Glendale has a spell of calm upon it, where the surrounding neighborhood noise and traffic sounds upon the road become enmeshed in the beauty that can be found here.

I am attracted to complicated things. My mind loves complexity, I often experience conflicting emotions and at times contradictory ideas. The attention that this place asks of me, to look deeply and carefully, pulls my nervous system into a calmed state. A utility pole is caught upon an island in the center of the creek, evidence of the recent flood. Graffiti on rocks is visible through the golden wash of sun as it breaks through the trees. The ethereal splendor of rising mist caught in sunbeams.

As I walk the path along the mill site, I catch glimpses of brick erupting from the ground, feel the bite of late fall chill in the shadows of trees along the path. Heading into the forest, the debris from the flood is snagged in trees above my head, my mind struggling to imagine the sheer immensity of a wall of water that high. I am struck by living kudzu holding onto dormant vines, the vibrant green clutching the desiccated brown of leaves already succumbed to winter. I wait for the sun, stand in the silence of both my own cold discomfort and gratitude for the quiet of the morning.

I glance at the time, realize I’m nearly late for breakfast, and begin back down the path to my car. My mind swirls with the images I’ve made, and words to describe what it feels like to be here, and what it means for me to be here. The light is already becoming the brightness of morning, as quickly as it moves in this time of the year.

Suddenly, I am aware of being observed. My head snaps up from my thoughts, and I meet the eyes of a black cat watching me from a fence post on the mill site, near one of the remaining corners of the mill. We stand, regarding each other, and I wave. He settles back onto the pole and I grow curious, remembering the small black kitten who rode on my shoulder during my artist residency, having picked me out as a companion for a few days. I make portraits of him, we stand in silent regard, I shiver, I continue along the path.

Trying to find the end point of a project is always difficult. Something about the cat felt like either an ending, or a beginning. I’m not sure which. I’m looking forward to the next time I photograph at Glendale. Getting to know a place through photography is a joy, and I’m curious where it will lead me.

A Cherished Embrace of Iron and Water is now available to view on my website!