Universalist Church, Mitchellville

All photographers hope their work does justice to the subject. For this photograph, however, I admit to failure. This perspective painting behind the podium is so stunning that I literally could not look at anything else for several minutes. When I walked in the front door, the urge to walk down the aisle and up into the painting was incredibly strong.

This painting is in the old Mitchellville Universalist Church. It's on the National Register of Historic Places. Arlis Fenimore lives across the street from the church and was gracious enough to interrupt her Saturday to let me in. When I asked about the painting, she said it was a mystery. When the building was turned over to a historical group, the painting was found beneath a layer of wallpaper. Arlis said no one knows who painted it, when it was painted, or what it's exact meaning.

There are plenty of mysteries in any religion. There are many questions that refuse to be answered. And maybe that's the point of the painting.

From the photography point of view, this photo is mostly a shot of record; that is, it simply shows a subject in its surroundings. I'm posting it because I think it's intriguing and one of the most unusual pieces of artwork I've seen in a church. I did take several different viewpoints, but I'm not sure any of them will end up in the final church project. I did take another photo that is more likely to be in the final project, but I'll post that one later.

Where Do Angels Live?

One of the absolute religious beliefs I had at the age of five was that angels lived on clouds. To my five-year-old mind, it was an undeniable fact equal to the fact that Santa Claus delivered my “big” Christmas present every year.

I’m a little older than five now and I know that angels don’t live on clouds. Science classes and a more mature spiritual outlook took care of that notion. Yet, when the summer skies of our state produce awesome cloud formations there is enough of my five-year-old self remaining to whisper “Angels live there.” 

So when I see a great formation of clouds like these behind the Hickory Grove Church near Kellogg, the idea of angels are never far from my mind. It’s a good example of how powerful symbols and the ideas that we associate with them can be. When I see clouds, I associate them with angels and heaven. When I see a building with Gothic windows and a steeple, I know immediately what it is and what purpose it fills.

It’s likely that symbols in church design are taken for granted. For example, Gothic windows and steeples have been in use for almost a thousand years. Do we really think about what they mean any more or even know why they were used?  Yet, while lumber and brick make a physical church, the symbols used in its construction make it more than just a building. They make it a scared place.

At first glance, clouds appear to be an easy photographic subject. But rarely does taking a picture of clouds, no matter how majestic, result in a good photograph. The problem is including something in the photograph that gives a sense of scale to help the viewer relate to the clouds. In this photograph, the church, graveyard, and trees provide the scale and the high point of the clouds completes a nice triangular composition that helps keep the viewer’s eye in the photograph. 

And, yes, I looked for angels.

Hopkins Grove Church

I'm a big fan of my wife Nancy's apple pie. I usually get one for my birthday which helps me ignore the fact I'm another year older. But trying to understand exactly why I like them so much leaves me scratching my head. It could be how she carefully blends different types of apple. It might be her made-from-scratch crust. It might be because she adds extra cinnamon and, of course, you can never have too much cinnamon. But I can't put my finger on just one of those reasons.

I found it equally difficult to pinpoint why rural churches appeal to me. I've logged quite a bit of time behind the wheel since starting The Church Project in 2009 and, since I never listen to the radio in the car, a lot of drive time was devoted to finding an answer to the "why". In previous posts, I've mentioned that I like these buildings for many reasons. But if I had to pick just one, which would it be?

It took a couple of years, but I think I finally discovered the why. I call it eloquent simplicity. This shot of the Hopkins Grove Methodist Church near Madrid is a good example. The repeated arch shapes and diagonals create an eloquent facade and also a simple one. Imagine adding one additional shape or building feature. It would create a contrived, confusing and chaotic facade to this lovely, small church.

Capturing eloquent simplicity in a photograph is a little tricky. It's too easy to include one more element than necessary in a composition. The result is a photograph that look contrived, confusing, and chaotic. It's necessary to develop a visual discipline and to learn when to say enough. 

And more than that. It's necessary to understand that these buildings can tell their own stories. I just need to give them a voice.

Mystery and St. Micheal's

It wasn't my intention to make a foreboding and mysterious photograph when I stopped at St. Micheal's Catholic Church near Iowa City. But both words are appropriate for this shot.

I think mystery is appropriate for any artistic project with a religious theme. Despite the best efforts of our many belief systems, there is something about the nature of the Divine that resists the best efforts of our prying and curious minds. The darker tonal values and the grave markers contribute both to the foreboding and mystery in this photo. The sense of mystery is heightened by the ambiguous figure at the extreme right.

What caught my eye in this scene was the afternoon light illuminating the windows. But two issues created problems. One was perspective. Standing close to the windows so that no markers were in the way created severe perspective distortion. Standing a little further back didn't fully correct the situation and introduced the second problem of markers intruding on the composition.

My solution (that I'm not entirely happy with) was to incorporate the markers into the composition. I used the three tall markers on the left and the mysterious marker on the right to create a frame for the two windows. This viewpoint down slope from the church also created a rich addition of tones found in the weathered wall of the church and the markers.

While shooting, I was pleasantly interrupted by Harold, a member of the church and part of the Friends of Old St. Micheal's group that maintains the church. He graciously let me in to look around in the sanctuary and also added an interesting historical tidbit. Former residents of every county in Ireland are buried in the graveyard. Meeting great people like Harold and discovering more about these fascinating churches have been a real treat.

Dunbar Lutheran

Rural churches fascinate me because they can be looked at from several different perspectives. They can be looked at as scared places. They can be viewed as historic places. But they can also be seen as part of our landscape, just like our rolling hills and cloud-filled skies. Whether they're nestled against a tree-filled hill or surrounded by fields, they look as if they belong there. Rarely do they stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. They only look out of place when they are no longer there.

Unfortunately, like many aspects of the landscape, these churches are fragile elements. I'm afraid that our landscape will soon be missing some of these churches. While many rural churches are active or are maintained by their former congregations, many more have been left to be worn down by time and weather. And while I've tried not to be too sentimental or nostalgic in doing this project, I think that is unfortunate.

This shot of the Dunbar Lutheran church in Central Iowa is a good instance of a church at home in the landscape. I'm not entirely happy with the composition -- the small fur tree blending visually with the trunk of the foreground tree is a little distracting. But a critical part of any type of photography is compromise. To create separation between the trees required moving to a point where a power pole intruded or moving to the side which I felt made a less effective photograph. It brings to mind this definition of compromise I read somewhere: "Compromise: A solution which neither party likes."

 Cloudy Skies

 

Clouds are no strangers to Iowa's summer-time skies. In fact, the marvelous display of cumulus clouds drifting lazily above the landscape is one of the few "perks" of a hot, humid Iowa summer. And while my weather knowledge is limited, we don't often seem to see such a variety of clouds as we do in this photo of St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Story County.

The clouds adds a sense of mystery that helps make this more than a picture of a steeple against a cloudy sky. It adds -- and I'm struggling with terms here -- an unseen dimension which I hope is found in the other photographs. My goal for The Church Project is to portray these wonderful rural churches as sacred places and I feel these clouds help this photograph meet that goal.

However, this photo walks a fine line. Is this a photograph about clouds or is it about churches? Considering the time I spent adjusting the contrast in the clouds and only including the steeple of the church, the argument could be made that the photo is about the clouds and not the church. While I like this photo quite a bit, I need to think about the question it raises before including it in the final project.

Ingemann Church

 

My sister-in-law, Susan, says these old churches are filled with stories and memories. When I first walked into the Ingemann Church near Moorhead in western Iowa, those stories and memories made themselves felt very strongly. It was easy to imagine the generations of people who attended here all looking over my shoulder and wondering what the heck is that guy doing?

Stories and memories are just part of the history of these churches. It's easy to forget that these old churches have been around for over a century. The steel-bottomed plow was the peak of agricultural technology when some of these churches were built. Civil War veterans are buried in many of their cemeteries. Toilet facilities are outside. These churches link us to our past and also to our future. It's one of the reasons why I suspect many people are drawn to them.

Besides the history they embody, I'm attracted by the simple design of some of these older churches. There's nothing fancy about this entryway, but I like how it's illuminated by the side light from a window. I also like the subtle lighting that gives an otherwise blank wall some interest. And, of course, the main aisle directs the eye straight to the doorway.

Hickory Grove Window

Stained glass windows have been a feature of churches since the Middle Ages when they were used to help a largely illiterate society understand teachings from the Bible. The beautiful windows also encouraged people into a contemplative state of mind suitable for worship. 

As the sun moved across the sky, colors from the window danced through the interior of the church turning it into a giant kaleidoscope. Lit from within at night, the windows served as a beacon and source of comfort to the surrounding population.

Another effect of stained glass windows is the ability to inspire a congregation. I have certainly felt that effect from the stained glass windows in  the Hickory Grove Church northeast of Kellog, Iowa. This is another church that I visit frequently and largely because of its windows. Each time I can find new and different compositions in the glass that I have yet to grow tired of.

 

 Pieta Chapel

"Window Outline, Pieta Chapel" is a photograph that almost wasn't. I made this image after first thinking that it was too "out there" for the project. It was made soon after I started to shoot for the project and I was still trying to discover how to convey the presence of these old sacred places.

Capturing that presence is an ongoing struggle. My mentor, George DeWolfe, summed the problem up succinctly, "How do you photograph the invisible?" And while he's helped me come up with a starting place, it's a question worthy of more than one answer. 

Pieta Chapel is behind the St. Donatus Catholic Church, between Dubuque and Bellevue, Iowa. The chapel sits on the top of a ridge behind the church. The path up to the chapel threads past an Outdoor Way of the Cross and, fittingly enough, through a sheep pasture.

St. John's Lutheran Church

One of the early decisions I made about the Church Project was to shoot it in black and white. Depicting these fine old buildings in black and white tones is the appropriate choice. I think it took me 30 seconds to figure that one out.


But. Color has always been an undeniably important part of church architecture. Many people couldn't read in the Middle Ages, but they could follow the stories illustrated in stained glass windows. For me, personally, stained glass windows always make churches special places.


For those and other reasons, it's likely that there will be a small number of color photographs in the final selection. In any group of photos, the photographer wants to establish a rhythm and flow. My current thinking is I'll use a handful of color photos to help create that in the Church Project.


St. John's Lutheran Church is in the background of this photo. It's just outside St. Donatus, Iowa, which is southeast of Dubuque. The lighting on this evening was dramatic and fast.  It was a matter of slam the brakes, get the camera on the tripod, compose, focus, and shoot. The rainbow faded away soon after I made this photo.

Ghost Town Church

I can be a fickle when it comes to my photographs. I can really like a particular photo for two or three weeks and then I start to like it less and less. Not so with this photo of an abandoned church. It's in a ghost town called Halfa in northern Iowa. It has remained on my list of favorites since I first worked on it. It has good tonality, good composition, and an interesting subject.

This church is obviously abandoned and it poses an important question when I think of it as part of the Church Project. I wanted to show these churches as important parts of their community. In this church's case, the community is no longer there. Should churches no longer in use be included?

No doubt I'll continue to ponder that question. For now Ghost Town Church remains a part of the project. Despite not being cared for, it retains a dignified air that I admire. The people who worshiped here made this church a sacred place. That did not change when they left.

Union Chapel

Union Chapel is one of the first churches I stumbled across at the start of the project. And I mean that literally. I was driving around looking for landscape possibilities when I saw the sign for it.

I've made multiple visits to this church. Being just west of Baxter, it's not that far from Altoona and if the sky is interesting I can usual get there in time to see if I can make a photograph. But the other reason I come back here is because I can't escape the feeling that there's a better photograph to be made. Until then, this shot in the early morning fog will have to do.

Chapel Light

It's been quite a hiatus for the Church Project blog. I finally have my current group of favorites registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. For the rest of 2012 I'll be adding a new image two or three times a month.

Shooting for the project, however, has continued. By the end of 2011 I had logged more than 7,000 miles, visited close to 300 churches, and made over 2,600 exposures.

This blog has two purposes. First, comments from readers will help improve the photos I take in the future. Second, I'm very much hoping that readers will suggest their favorite churches and share stories and memories. I'd like to use these as part of the exhibition I'm working on and -- if I'm lucky -- for the book I'd like to do on this subject.

So please feel free to add your thoughts and comments, positive or negative. Both are valuable.

This window is in the Pieta Chapel behind the St. Donatus Catholic Church in Northeast Iowa. I was drawn by how the light highlighted the different planes of the wall.