Statements
Bare Handed
2007 - 2021
For the past fifteen years, my photography in rural communities of the United States has explored the intersection of faith, labor, history, and the land. I am drawn to people and places that reveal subtle tensions, contradictions, and unresolved moments. My research-based practice yields bodies of work created over multiple years as I photograph contemporary rituals and traditions rooted in history, some of which are at risk of disappearing from the cultural landscape. My academic background in psychology makes me interested in portraying core aspects of the human condition, filtered through local contexts. In Bare Handed (2007–2021), I depict the connection between labor and spirituality, and the relationship of those practices to the history of the land in the U.S. I do this by photographing people working in tandem with their environments, using tools that have mostly been replaced by mechanization. These gestural portraits convey an elemental connection between humans and the land, sea, animals, and ritualized agricultural practices to which they remain committed.
While photographing for Bare Handed, I sought to resist long-standing art historical tropes of victimhood or suffering in representations of rural people, instead looking to portray people as empowered. Biblical and mythological allusions were created unexpectedly, leading me see that cultural visual memory is a vital aspect of my work. Often these references resulted from an arrangement of people, as in Lunch, PEAS Farm, Missoula, Montana, or a single gesture, as in Sienna, Turkey Madonna, Shutesbury, Massachusetts. “By incorporating recognizable symbols, Lynton invokes cultural memories, the touchstones that form us as individuals and unite us through shared experience,” writes art historian Terence Washington.
A year after starting this body of work, I moved from New York City to rural New England. This relocation reaffirmed a personal interest in living sustainably and my desire to continue telling stories about life in rural communities. Bare Handed was created over a period of twelve years, and I view my images as a collaboration with the communities in which I photograph. These gestural portraits emphasize the meditative aspects of the practiced movements of people who respect the land, gaining sustenance but leaving little mark. The photographs have enabled me to highlight a human need for unmediated experiences with the natural world and celebrate people who honor the land through their dedicated stewardship.
Ten Thousand Haystacks
2018 - present
Ten Thousand Haystacks. The Big Hole Valley in Montana is called “the land of ten thousand haystacks,” although it is unclear if there were that many. The American West is rife with the mythology of grandeur, which masks both the reality of the past and what transpired on the land, as well as present-day concerns. The valley holds the evidence of human stories marked by time—stories of violence, migration and immigration, ingenuity, and uncertainty. An alpine desert, the Big Hole sits at an altitude too cold to be inhabited in the winter by the Native Americans, who originally collected camas root there during their annual migration. It was uninhabited until the Homesteading Act and the introduction of the railroads, which enabled white settlers to build dwellings and raise cattle. Camas root still grows each year and covers the fields in the valley with blue flowers in the spring. It looks like water.
The valley is named after a haying method that was invented there in 1908: beaverslide hay stacking. Originally powered by horses, the beaverslide is now powered by ranch equipment made from old trucks and tractors by the multi-generational, family labor force. Yet it may soon be obsolete. Only about five families persist with the beaverslide. They resist the more mechanized and less independent methods of baling hay with large John Deere tractors, where people work alone at 2 a.m. in air-conditioned cabs. They prefer to remain independent and feel the elements—the heat, the dust that blankets them, and the hay, which creates a phantom itching sensation even when you have showered it all off. I have felt all these things when making photographs.
The first time I rode on a buck-rake, the rancher’s son, Alfred, said “hang on.” Before I could feel firmly settled in the slippery seat and grab hold of the gaffer-taped armrest, the machine jerked forward. I caught four inches of air. He meant it. What followed was something akin to a roller-coaster-meets-bumper-cars ride as we crashed into seven-foot-tall mounds of hay to lift them onto the teeth of the rake and bring them over to the beaverslide, to be put on top of the stack. Ditches and quick turns made it feel like an old, rickety rollercoaster; the threat of being catapulted was both frightening and thrilling. At times the machine would break and Dean—Alfred’s father, the team mechanic and engineer—would troubleshoot until the buck-rake was running again. The days are long and relentless—twelve hours with breaks for two communal meals. Haying only stops if there is a storm, yet kids being kids find ways to make it fun. The adage “make hay while the sun shines” is real. It is a fast race against the heat and threat of rain to get the hay up into 30-foot-tall stacks before it is ruined by the elements.
There is an ease to the movements of their labor that seems coded in their DNA. The job is passed from father to son or daughter, and from older sibling to younger. They work as a synchronized team, moving like ants in a large colony, communicating through glances, head nods, and whistles. Women are not relegated to cooking. Teenage girls work right alongside their brothers and cousins. What does it mean do be human in the face of increasing automation, mechanization, and artificial intelligence? These pictures are meant to highlight human ingenuity, persistence, tradition, and labor—but also human fragility in relationship to the machine and the elemental forces of nature.
Meeting Tonight
2017 - present
During my exploration of aspects of faith in America, I learned about “camp meetings” that have taken place annually for over 200 years in Dorchester County, South Carolina. The rise of gatherings for faith and fellowship followed a period of turmoil in American history and evolved again after the Civil War when African Americans established their own camp meetings. Meeting Tonight: Under the Brush Arbor explores this historical legacy and its current role in this community.
The title refers to the makeshift tabernacle or grove of trees that often served in place of church walls during the Second Great Awakening in the early nineteenth century when Methodist camp meetings began. With its theology of free will and rejection of the educated clergy, the rise in Methodist popularity directly paralleled what was happening in the country following the Revolutionary War. The enthusiastic and emotional style of worship gave people an outlet for expressing their combined emotions of hope and anxiety as the country grew and people moved West. With few established churches, itinerant ministers traveled on horseback thousands of miles to bring spiritual practice to residents. Methodists openly expressed anti-slavery sentiments and ministered to the enslaved and slaveholders alike. In addition, enslaved people and free African Americans could serve as preachers in the 1700s, and camp meetings were thought to be a site for abolitionist gatherings. However, historical research shows that when black and white people attended services, they were divided into separate seating sections. After the Civil War, African Americans established their own camp meetings. Previously, the secret sites of worship they created away from the white churches they were made to attend while enslaved were referred to as “Hush Harbors or Arbors.”
Historically, the camp meeting was often the anticipated community gathering of the year. A place not only to renew faith, but to see family and friends, celebrate the harvest with a bounty of food, and even meet a future spouse. Now, camp meeting sites sit empty until the preparations for the annual week of faith-related activities begin. Multi-generational families arrive for the week, bringing supplies for cooking and sleeping in the historic cabins. Some of the strict rules have lapsed, and sermons over loudspeakers can be heard in the background as people chat in front of the tents. And yet, families still hold onto the tradition and gather for food and fellowship. One attendee explained it was a time for her family to honor their enslaved ancestors by cooking dishes they would have prepared in the 1800’s. This tradition will undoubtedly be affected by the current unrest and reconsideration of history taking hold in all corners of our country. Today, we find that the gatherings are still separated by race and yet invited guests cross those racial boundaries. That more change is necessary can be heard in private conversations, seen in rural churches taking a stand for equal rights despite a loss in congregants, and echoed in sermons. “We are separated not by race but by racism,” one minister preached as he encouraged the congregation to heal wounds. I believe that over the years, as I continue my pilgrimage to camp meeting sites, the changes coming to this community will be evident in my photographs. This series is ongoing.
Beyond the Bounds
2019 - present
“Wild in that wilderness, we roam the distances of our faith, safe beyond the bounds of what we know.”—Wendell Berry
I was brought up with no particular religious faith—my father was a non-practicing Jew, who rejected his parents’ New York life to live in the mountains of Colorado; my mother was a self- proclaimed Unitarian, who celebrated Christianity only as materialized holidays; and my stepfather was raised Catholic but embraced atheism when his mother became born-again. After a high school boyfriend announced his family wouldn’t accept me because I was not fully Jewish, I decided the natural world would be my “church,” a place where I could always belong.
Through my photography, I am drawn to people and places that reveal subtle tensions, unresolved moments, or contradictions. In a new series of photographs titled Beyond the Bounds, I am exploring the intersection of faith, history, and the environment. Photographed in the rural communities of, I will spend the year creating collaborative “faith portraits”—which encompass both religious practices and secular activities—and images of the places we go to look for faith and what has been left behind. These places reflect the multifaceted and contentious religious history of the United States and vary from interiors of historical religious sites to towns founded by psychics in Florida to the “miracle” waters of God’s Acre Healing Spring in South Carolina.
Often when we hear the word “faith,” we think of religious practice. I want to explore how faith permeates our lives, including in ways we may not often consider. With this project, I plan to tell the complicated story of what faith, broadly conceived, means to people living in America today, and how current rituals and social constructs are inexorably linked to the historical fabric of the United States and its many religious and cultural movements.
While religion can be polarizing, somehow faith is not. To create the “faith portraits,” I collaborate with each individual and ask them what an embodiment of faith would look like for them. The portrait may reflect their existing spiritual practice, or it may reflect a necessary moment before physical activity, like the preparation of the rock climber before he climbs. Each person has a unique personal narrative, which I draw on as we visualize their interior faith.
The inspiration for these portraits occurred to me one Sunday, after reading two stories in The New York Times—one on religious conflict and the other on new, “hip” churches that have risen up to appeal to younger worshipers and push against the secularization of society. These churches echo the long-ago appeal of the camp meeting, which boosted the popularity of Methodism. I reflected on gestures of worship and the overlap between cultures and religion when people embody the act of worshiping—and the unity in that embodiment. That same week, a friend died in a car accident—a teacher on his way to school, hit by a truck driven by a sixteen-year-old who skidded on black ice. The next day, I allowed my sixteen-year-old to drive her brother to school, in what I can only attribute to faith. Faith that they would return. The cyclical and intertwined nature of these acts allowed me to consider how faith permeates our lives daily, subconsciously, in ways not often considered.
Unmasked Relationships
2020 - present
During the Spring of 2020, when families went into quarantine, my ongoing projects that involved travel were put on hold, which led me to create a new series of photographs. Indoors with my immediate family during an unusually cold spring, I observed my 14-year-old son’s growth spurt. In the span of a few short months, he shed evidence of his boyhood and outpaced his 17-year-old sister. The new physical power he had when interacting with family members also elevated his confidence. As I observed my children’s changing physicality and shifting power dynamics, I began to reflect on how siblings were the only same age “peers” who could be in close physical proximity during quarantine and wondered how these relationships might be affected by the pandemic.
I began to photograph adolescent siblings with a focus on physical closeness and touch. Over the course of the summer and early fall of 2020, I photographed many pairs of siblings with an interest in the particular dynamics of teenagers and their naturally shifting sibling relationships as they go through puberty. I focused on the intimacy that exists in these relationships and considered how intimacy may be mistaken as sexuality and affection taboo between siblings as they grow older. Physical play with older siblings is often not seen out in public, but only when families are at home. And yet, with each sibling pair I photographed, there were moments of tenderness and playful aggression, and they moved fluidly between the two. The dynamics particular to each relationship can also be observed even when no physical touch is involved.
While making this work, I came to believe that there is a closeness and comfort siblings have with each other, and tendency towards play, that rarely exists in other relationships, and yet often is what we look for in adult partnerships. Teenagers have spent fifteen years or more cohabitating, with an ease unique to the family home. Yet it is also a relationship that is finite, as siblings grow up and leave that physical closeness is lost. It is fleeting and it is precious. This series is ongoing.