Into the Anthropocene

In 2016, those who determine such things officially agreed the Earth had entered a new Epoch in its evolutionary age. Termed the Anthropocene, it is defined as human-influenced, where our activity has caused irreversible changes to land, oceans, and air. Anthropocene supplants the Holocene that began at the end of the last ice age about 11,000 years ago. Our new Earth Age is the starting point for this body of work that explores vast man-altered landscapes. I am both concerned and curious how repercussions from our rapidly expanding world need for Agriculture, Energy, and Water, impact our planet and ultimately us.

Agriculture - The Palouse
To begin my exploration, I traveled to the Palouse grasslands - now wheat fields - of eastern Washington to immerse myself in a landscape terraformed and overlaid by commerce since before the dawn of the Anthropocene (actual starting point TBD). By highlighting this region, I bring attention to difficult choices we face when considering exploitation or preservation of ecosystems.

The topography of the region is embellished by pattern and design across its surface - all byproducts of efficient farming required by constraints of the rolling terrain. It seemed a visual dance - or was it a struggle - between human imposed order and natural growth cycles, an imposition and collaboration at the same time. What was revealed I found compelling - strangely alien but completely human. By allowing human intervention to speak over the landscape itself in my images, I imagine a new landscape more of its Age.

 Energy - Ivanpah Thermal Solar Plant

Coming over the rise through Nipton California, on Highway 164 into the Ivanpah Valley, the Ivanpah Thermal Solar Power Plant came into view. Like a vision from Tolkien's Mordor, three towers, glowing ominously, rise above the surrounding desert on a gentle slope. The towers are surrounded on all sides by mirror arrays, known as heliostats, that reflect the sunlight onto the central towers.

It is not an easy thing to make the desert here look small, but at 35,000 acres on leased BLM land, the sprawling plant caused a disorienting effect on my senses as my mind struggled to fit it into proper scale. It is the largest solar plant of its kind in the world and generates 377-megawats that provide electricity to 140,000 homes. I was interested in exploring the effect this large facility had on my perception of the natural landscape. As world populations and demand for energy increase, formerly untouched natural landscapes and ecosystems will continue to be disturbed or destroyed.

Energy - Bisbee/Asarco Pit Mines

Wanting to experience the effect on the landscape of pit mining in the U.S., I traveled to two mines in Arizona. The Lavender pit mine, located in Bisbee, was opened in 1950 and abandoned in 1974, while the Asarco (American Smelting and Refining company) Mission pit mine near Green Valley is a modern, in-production operation.

Comparing the two show that even after nearly 40 years of abandonment, little visual difference was evident. The previously sharply terraced edges of Lavender’s rock faces and roadways seemed blurred now compared to those at the modern Asarco mine. Erosional forces slowly acting on the bare exposed rock faces have blended colorful minerals on their journey to the tailing pool.

At Asarco’s Mission mine, high water demands are consuming 85% of the aquifer supplied water in the Upper Santa Cruz Valley, leading to its steady decline. In 2007, a Pima County report stated that “Water supplies will become critical within the next ten years”. This unsustainable consumption rate is now being mitigated by pumping water from the Central Arizona Project. It was estimated that it would require a pipe diameter of 72” to convey enough water for direct use or to recharge the Upper Basin. As of 2017 one 36” CAP pipeline had been completed, with a second slated to be completed later in the year. But, because capacity scales with cross-sectional area, not with diameter, the two pipeline provide only half the capacity of a single 72” pipe.

Energy - Oildale Oilfield/Palm Springs Windmil

The Kern River Oil Field covers an area of 10,750 acres in a rough oval extending over the low hills north-northeast of Bakersfield - hills which are now almost completely barren except for oil rigs, drilling pads and associated equipment. Oil was first discovered here1899 in one large pool and was named for the river that runs through it. Two smaller pools, the Vedder and Jewett, were later discovered in 1981 and 1985 respectively.

While most of the oil has been removed, modern extraction methods such as Fracking have made it possible to remove oil previously deemed too costly. Total estimated reserves of the Kern field at the end of 2006 totaled more than 475 million barrels - about 15% of California’s reserve.

Wastewater from the field was once allowed to drain directly into the streams dissecting the region, and then into the Kern River. This practice ended in the 1960s and 1970s when more stringent environmental regulations were enacted both on federal and state levels. Wastewater now is treated in facilities specifically built for this purpose, and after the treatment, is used to irrigate crops in the San Joaquin Valley.

Water - Owens Lake
Once a thriving lake at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, Owens Lake is now a scarred basin—an emblem of the Anthropocene. In 1913, Los Angeles diverted the Owens River into the aqueduct, draining the lake within a decade. What remained was not only ecological collapse but the single largest source of dust pollution in the United States.

To walk the playa is to enter a landscape engineered into absence: shallow ponds, dust-control grids, and saline flats form geometric scars where an inland sea once reflected sky. Ironically, water now must be reintroduced in carefully managed doses, not to restore habitat but to suppress the choking alkali dust that sickens communities downwind.

The landscape is at once haunting and instructive: it reveals the magnitude of what can be lost when human need overrides ecological balance. Owens Lake endures as both a technological experiment in remediation and a permanent reminder that water, once seized, reshapes everything downstream—physically, politically, and morally.

Water - Lake Mead
Formed by Hoover Dam in 1935, Lake Mead was a marvel of twentieth-century engineering: a symbol of modern mastery over arid lands. It provided power, water, and recreation to millions across the Southwest. Yet today it reads more like an epitaph. The stark white “bathtub ring” etched into canyon walls marks how far the waters have fallen—over 150 feet since its high point. Extended drought, climate change, and relentless demand have pushed Mead toward historic lows, raising questions about the viability of cities and agriculture built on borrowed water.

The dam’s bold promise of permanence has given way to fragility, a vast reservoir revealing its emptiness. As power generation falters and water rationing escalates, Lake Mead is no longer a triumph but a warning. What was once celebrated as conquest over desert has become a ledger of overshoot, its retreat a reminder that engineered abundance has limits in an era of climate instability.

Water - Lake Oroville
Nestled in the Sierra foothills, Lake Oroville is California’s second-largest reservoir, designed in the 1960s as part of the State Water Project to secure a future of growth. Yet its fluctuating shorelines now expose the volatility of that promise. Houseboats marooned on dry earth and concrete markers stranded above shrunken bays show how climate change intensifies California’s boom-and-bust hydrology. In wet years, Oroville swells; in dry years, its waters retreat into isolated coves surrounded by parched hills. These extremes were dramatized in 2017, when the spillway crisis threatened downstream communities, underscoring how fragile the infrastructure is under stress.

Oroville is not just a reservoir but a mirror of California’s contradictions: lush agricultural valleys and sprawling cities are sustained by an increasingly uncertain supply. Its exposed banks and dry fingers of land press the question—how long can a state built on shifting water cycles endure when the cycles themselves are being remade by human hands?