Painting Myself Into A Corner

Taking the Waters was meant to be small in scale—a project to be completed in a bold four months, designed as a quick cycle of making and showing my work. I wanted to build a story around the quirky places I’ve fondly discovered in my life.

My fondness for hot springs started in my childhood, with memories of yearly family reunions at a hot springs resort in Utah. The smell of sulfur wasn’t my favorite, but it stuck in my memory.

When I moved to Oregon I discovered a whole new world of hot springs. In the Pacific Northwest it feels like the waters pop out of the mossy forests like the mushrooms that do the same.

My time in Montana has shown me a different version of natural hot springs.

There’s the science of hot springs and the social networks surrounding these places, with histories and generational connections still to explore.

The hot springs of Montana and Oregon share an unlikely ancestor. The Yellowstone Hotspot crossed the continent over a period of 17 million years. It scarred the land with surface cracks and fault networks that the waters of these areas now weave through.

The resorts and people of Montana are bonded to that geological origin story.

For me exploration and adventure go along with naturally fed hot springs. I seek them out everywhere I go. But beyond relaxation, I’m not entirely sure why that is. 

Then I started noticing all the other people doing the same thing. What are their reasons for chasing the waters?

I felt excited to pursue a project close to my interests and seemingly relatable to other people. It was too much to resist the interesting ways I could shape this work.

But I also felt anxious about how I might structure it and whether I could turn it around quickly.

Then it got bigger

When I started my project planning I thought I’d visit five to ten hot springs resorts in Montana. My goal was to view each place objectively and guide the narrative across locations. This way I could step into the experience as a participant observer. 

Acting as a customer gives me firsthand perspective. It allows me to gather insights from other customers and staff without introducing biases that might result from announcing myself as a photographer.

Here’s the structured research framework I used to help me gather consistent data from these field visits. 

1. Immersion & Observation
2. • Record sensory impressions
   • Note what stands out: people, rituals, atmosphere, physical details
   • Listen to conversations and observe.
2. Inquiry to Focus
3. • 3 standout qualities: What catches my attention first?
   • 3 curiosities: What am I most curious to learn more about?
   • 3 patterns: What mirrors other places I’ve been to?
3. Investigation to Guide
4. • Photo: What images answer or evoke the questions?
   • Research: What extra context do I need?
   • Engagement: Who should I talk to?

Then after each location I wrote recaps of the visits, logging observations, answers to my structured framework, quotes I’d overheard—any details that would help build toward the larger project.

You can find two distilled summaries here Quinn’s and Broadwater.

Then it fell apart

At first I was excited about how everything was coming together. I felt like the work was leading me on its own.

I was even excited that I could expand the work over time to other areas or countries. It felt natural.

The writing opportunities felt expansive, but I started questioning the photography. Then the narrative arc.

When I started this project my central thesis question was: Why do people take the waters? 

As it progressed I realized I’d inadvertently painted myself into a corner and had these sorts of questions:

• How do I photograph within the resorts I was visiting without violating privacy or asking for special access?
• How do I photograph these resorts in a way that answers the deeper questions I’m curious about?
• Who are the characters of these stories? Resort owners Customers? Community members? Indigenous people who once stewarded these lands? Myself?
• How do I take interesting photos of everyday buildings? Would that feel meaningful?

It started to feel uninspiring and confusing and I didn’t know where to take it.

I didn’t want to force the work. So I put down my camera and pen.

Primordial Epiphany

Then on a trip to Costa Rica an epiphany came. 

The private nature reserve we were staying at in Guanacaste province had a thermal mineral canyon.

This was the type of place you hike into, where you realize the river has been there for a long time, and that sense of clarity shapes your experience of it. It’s raw and adventurous.

As we hiked farther into the canyon we found pool after pool. The vines and trees consumed the place. The earth smells of petrichor and you can hear the bird calls echo through the canyon.

Stepping into that canyon felt like stepping into another time. This place felt primordial and it humbled me.

Beyond the adventurous feeling I wanted to find the perfect pool. I tried as many of them as I could until I found the right combination of stillness and warmth. 

Then I floated on my back looking up at the canopy’s understory. I floated that way for a long time letting go of the worry of being pushed down stream. I let go of any anxiety that a Costa Rican creature would get me from below.

Surprisingly, as I set into stillness a few lizards ran across the surface of the waters to various rocks and boulders. They were just enjoying the waters like I was.

Once I relaxed into the wildness of the place it was like I had shed a version of myself like those lizards had. 

Then the epiphany part hit me. 

The deeper experience of these places is relatable from across species and time. 

We can lose ourselves exploring these places. We can discover them and believe that we’re the first to explore. It feels special to us.

These places allow us to let go our worries, our pains, and we can feel at ease.

We can connect with others over that shared mythology, the shared rejuvenation.

The human experience of places like this is complex. But it can be distilled into fundamentals.

To do that I needed a new architectural structure to constrain the work and help me better articulate its documentary focus. 

Structuring Documentary Work

I realized I made an error tying this project so closely to place. I had inadvertently minimized the more difficult work of articulating why I think taking the waters is resonant for us.

Instead, a new more action-oriented focus made more sense: the rituals of taking the waters.

What are the stages of our rituals around hot springs? How do we embody these? With this new direction, I reorganized my project into these chapters:

• Seeking: Why we go. The pull. What we’re looking for before we arrive.
• Arriving: The threshold moment. First impressions. Crossing into the space.
• Entering: The act of getting in. Shedding clothes, identity, social roles.
• Soaking: What happens when you stay. Conversations, community, time dissolving. Health benefits?
• Emerging: What changes. What you carry out. The return to ordinary life.

I’ll pose animating questions for each stage, asking what kind of needs, cures, or feelings we’re seeking:

• Physical: What ailments are we trying to soothe? How do mineral waters offer bodily relief?
• Social/Community: How do these spaces create low-obligation connection, conversation, and belonging among strangers?
• Spiritual/Primal: What spiritual forms of healing are taking place here? How do hot springs connect us with our primal selves?
• Escape/Relief: What forms of release and solitude are being supported? How do these spaces allow us to let go and disconnect from our daily lives?
• Ceremony/Continuity: How do repetition and ceremony influence the experience across time and generations?
• Pleasure: What is the immediate sensation of enjoyment, ease, or rejuvenation that underpins it all?

Reframing everything this way helped me realize that this isn’t a 3–4 month project. That if I want to document this story the way I want to, it has to grow.

I’m not sure if this is how long-form documentary projects should be structured. But it gives me something that works across place and isn’t constrained to Montana, but can extend to Costa Rica or Oregon or Utah or anywhere where people take the waters.

This shift opens up more opportunities to be creatively inspired. It helps me understand the nature of what I’m trying to uncover with this project.

It’s ambitious, obscure, and heady. But that interests me and I like the challenge of developing myself through this work.

Plus it gives me an opportunity to visit more hot springs, not a bad compromise.