I would have never described myself as an animal lover, either in my personal or professional life. As a photographer, I have always been drawn to capturing the essence of my human subjects. Each person has their own unique emotional makeup, wounds, and history which shapes who they are and how they interact with the world around them. In a way, photographing animals is not so different from photographing humans.
The animals at East Hollow Highland Farm are much the same. They have their own personalities, quirks, and histories, and those things become increasingly apparent the more time I spend around them. In order to photograph them in a way that feels honest, I first have to spend enough time with them to understand something about who they are.
It is the Scottish Highland cows that immediately caught my attention when my friends first brought them to the farm. I was struck by their peaceful presence and gentle nature. At first, I was unsure of how to approach them, but I quickly realized that spending time with them was therapeutic. Most all of them are very friendly and docile creatures who absolutely love attention, so standing in a field brushing their long, flowing hair became a common occurrence. There was something about spending time with them that seemed to quiet my mind in a way I hadn't expected
Building Unlikely Relationships
One of the cows that stood out in particular was Momma Cream. She was the mother of Fergus, a beautiful young bull, and she was known for being particularly edgy and aggressive towards humans. When she first arrived at the farm, she would charge anyone who came near her, and I quickly realized that she was not to be taken lightly. However, something about her fierce spirit intrigued me, and I wanted to form a connection with her.
Thus began my journey to earn her trust. At first, it seemed like an impossible task. Momma Cream was stubborn and had a fiery temper. She would lash out at anyone who came too close, even if they were offering treats (oh, blessed treats). But I refused to give up. Consistently, sometimes on a daily basis, I would spend time with her, talking to her, and working to gain her trust.
At first, she was aggressive and would come at me with those long, pointed horns a-swinging. There were wrestling matches in the pasture, flights for my life, muddy hoofprints on my clothes, and bruises on my ribs. But as time went on, she began to warm up to me.
I learned that Momma Cream was a cow with a past. From what I inadvertently learned one day when she saw me carrying a pitchfork, she had apparently been mistreated before arriving at East Hollow, which explained her hostile behavior. She was reacting to pain and fear that had been inflicted upon her in the past, and she had learned to be wary of humans.
As I continued to spend time with Momma Cream, I noticed a change in her behavior. She slowly began to trust me, and I could tell that she was starting to let go of some of that fear and anger. There were still some giant emotional walls, but she wanted to trust. I could approach her without her flinching or attempting to attack me. In fact, she even started to seek me out for affection.
The bond that I formed with Momma Cream was not easy to achieve. There were many moments when I thought it would never happen. There were times when I felt frustrated and discouraged, but I refused to give up. She was an incredible mother, and I knew that if I could earn Momma Cream's trust, there was a very different animal beneath all of that hostility. She now trots up to me for a hearty sniff, accepts affectionate hugs, and loves to have her neck and jaw rubbed.
Finding Solace in Unlikely Places
Somewhere along the way, spending time in the pasture became about considerably more than photography. There is an unavoidable amount of patience involved when you're dealing with animals, particularly when they have absolutely no concern for what you're trying to accomplish. You learn to slow down, pay attention, and accept that things are going to happen on their schedule rather than yours.
Spending time at the farm has also helped me rediscover some of the simple joys that are easy to overlook in the general chaos of everyday life. There is something refreshing about being outside, away from computers and phones and whatever else happens to be demanding attention, with little more to concern myself with than the animals standing around me.
Over time, the farm has become something of a refuge for me. I can go out into the pasture, leave much of the noise of everyday life behind for a while, and simply spend time with the animals. I didn't go there expecting any of that to happen; initially, I was simply interested in photographing the Highland cows. Somewhere along the way, though, the time I spent with them became every bit as important as the photographs I brought home.
Momma Cream, in particular, will always hold a special place in my heart. Her trust was hard-earned, and perhaps that is part of what made earning it so meaningful. There was no instant connection and certainly no guarantee that she would ever decide I was worth trusting. It took time, persistence, a fair number of treats, and more than a few close encounters with those horns.
But eventually, she did.
Learning From Unlikely Teachers
This process of forming a connection with my animal subjects is similar in many ways to the process of connecting with a human subject. It requires patience, empathy, and a willingness to pay attention to what the subject is telling me, even when that communication doesn't involve words.
With people, I can ask questions, give direction, or explain what I'm trying to accomplish. Animals offer considerably less cooperation. I have to pay attention to body language, vocalizations, habits, and small changes in behavior. Eventually, I begin to recognize when they are comfortable, irritated, curious, or preparing to do something that I should probably be ready for.
In many ways, photographing animals can be more challenging than photographing humans. They move unpredictably, they have no interest whatsoever in whatever photograph I may have envisioned, and the moments worth capturing tend to happen on their schedule rather than mine. It requires observation and, more often than not, a willingness to wait.
Despite those challenges, I have found photographing animals to be incredibly rewarding. When I am able to create a photograph that actually feels like the animal I have come to know, it becomes more than simply a good photograph. It says something about the individual standing in front of my camera.
In many ways, photographing animals has made me a better photographer of people as well. It has forced me to slow down, observe more carefully, and become more conscious of the small gestures, expressions, and changes in body language that reveal something about a subject. Those moments are easy to miss when I become too concerned with posing, lighting, or whatever photograph I think I am supposed to be making.
Whether I am photographing a cow, a chicken, or a human being, the basic principle really isn't all that different. I have to pay attention, spend enough time with the subject to understand something about them, and avoid becoming so preoccupied with making a photograph that I forget to actually see what is standing in front of me.
The time I have spent at East Hollow Highland Farm has opened up an entirely unexpected area of photography for me. I have found that I genuinely enjoy photographing animals and, perhaps more importantly, spending time with them.
I still don't know that I would describe myself as an animal lover.
But somewhere between the photographs, the hours spent standing around in pastures, the muddy clothes, the bruised ribs, and one particularly stubborn Highland cow, I suppose I have become something reasonably close to one.
