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Published:  May 6, 2008
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Author Details
Author:  Nick Sacy
Nick Sacy is a husband, father, son, brother, uncle, nephew, friend, student and amateur photographer.
Point, Shoot, Reload, Repeat: Rethinking The Act Of Photographing The Natural World
by Nick Sacy
“Enjoy the land, but own it not.” – Henry David Thoreau

There is a great sense of accomplishment in photographing the earth’s horizon as the sun slowly closes out the day, a magnificent mountain range stretching into the clouds or an unsuspecting deer roaming the space of its natural habitat. A photograph offers a memento of places traveled and sights seen. Long after the trip has ended, “the picture will still exist, conferring on the event a kind of immortality (and importance) it would never otherwise have enjoyed” (Sontag 11). The beauty of nature is captured, brought home, and enjoyed time and again. As the end result, most attention is often placed on the photograph’s aesthetic value, composition, color, etc. However, attention is rarely paid to the process of photographing the subject. The novice photographer, equipped with their digital camera measured in megapixels, may stumble across an object they find beautiful, lift their camera, shoot and move on. However, the professional takes his time, observes, studies, sits quietly by and waits for the perfect opportunity to shoot. Regardless of the process, the end result is the same, an impression of reality, a trace, is captured, becoming the property of the photographer. As property, it then becomes another element in the story; a story that may consist of endangered African gorillas, vicious grizzlies or even glorious crashing waves. This paper seeks to examine the relationship between film and the natural world, limiting the natural world to the animal species and the earth’s natural surface. By rethinking the act of photographing the natural world, it is my intention to demonstrate how the camera is often just another apparatus used in the objectification, and ultimately the appropriation of the natural world.

Photographing Wildlife: The Camera As A Weapon

The camera sees all and captures all. “There is an aggression implicit in every use of the camera” (Sontag 7). This aggression takes shape in the camera’s ability to capture violence as well as instigate it. On January 4, 1903, inventor Thomas Edison captured, on film, the electrocution of Topsy, a domesticated elephant with the Forepaugh Circus at Coney Island’s Luna Park1. This horrific event, as well as others caught on film (such as photographs from PETA depicting animal cruelty), demonstrates the camera’s ability to capture violence. Although the camera is incapable of committing any violent activities of its own device, it may in many regards be considered an apparatus of violence, and as such a weapon.

As early as thirty years after the first known photograph was taken, man envisioned the camera as a new apparatus with which to hunt in the natural world. In 1859, physician/poet Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote in regards to photography: “Every conceivable object of Nature and Art will soon scale off its surface for us. Men will hunt all curious, beautiful grand objects, as they hunt cattle in South America, for their skins, and leave the carcasses as of little worth” (81). As soon as the camera became accessible, the language of photography began to take shape. The process of photography became associated with the hunt, the camera with the rifle. Additionally, the November-December 1901 issue of The Condor, a Bi-Monthly Exponent of Californian Ornithology, featured an article praising a new method for studying birds: “Hunting with a camera affords not only a pleasing pastime but encourages the closest study and its results are likely to be of considerable scientific value” (Finley 137). The author goes on to say:
There is a fascination in obtaining a good photograph of the bird in its wild state that one misses entirely when he uses the gun. Natural history picture-making shows a much higher development in a man’s love for nature than the mere collecting of specimens to lie hidden away in some cabinet. (137-38)
Times have not changed much in the field of photography since Finley penned these words. The same is true today as it was then, the only difference between hunting with a gun and hunting with a camera is the end result. Man may have a deeper, more profound love for nature in photographing it as opposed to killing it, but the photographic process still fulfills man’s desire of hunting his prey. In her book On Photography, Susan Sontag speaks of this desire for the hunt in the photographic process:
There is something predatory in the act of taking a picture. To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. (14)
Although she speaks of the photograph turning people into objects, the same may be said of the natural world and its inhabitants. Much of the human species may have evolved past the stage of hunting and stuffing those members of the natural world it considers as “game.” However, those members are still stalked and shot, only this time they are framed instead of stuffed. A good photograph is the new vacation souvenir. The photograph becomes the reason for taking a vacation, the camera an essential piece of luggage. Traveling to the Grand Canyon is that much more spectacular if the clouds are just right, and the sky has that perfect shade of blue, or if the endangered Californian Condor is captured on film. African safaris have an entirely new meaning when set upon packing a camera instead of a gun. The photographer stalks his prey with the same tenacity and ferocity of the hunter. Footprints are followed. The photographer quietly waits, steadily lifts his weapon, takes aim by focusing and shoots, snapping the shutter. No heads are brought home and mounted from this safari. However, a framed photograph makes a satisfactory substitute. The story of the hunt is equally as enthralling and the payoff equally as satisfying. This is what Sontag refers to as the “Ecology Safari:”
The photographer is now charging real beasts, beleaguered and too rare to kill. Guns have metamorphosed into cameras in this earnest comedy, the ecology safari, because nature has ceased to be what it always had been—what people needed protection from. Now nature—tamed, endangered, mortal—needs to be protected from people. When we are afraid, we shoot. But when we are nostalgic, we take pictures. (15)
In the ecology safari, animals may not be hurt, but they are still objectified and dominated by man. Man may no longer kill for sport on the Serengeti, but he continues to exercise his self-claimed superiority over the natural world. The objectification of the natural world has become so integrated in the nature of man that too often he does it without even realizing it. Such is the case with Timothy Treadwell as seen in Werner Herzog’s documentary Grizzly Man. Much of the footage shot by Treadwell suggests that single-shot photographic cameras are not the only cameras used as weapons. Although the motion picture camera is not as effective in capturing time since it is “a stream of underselected images, each of which cancels its predecessor” (Sontag 18), it nonetheless still allows its owner the privilege of controlling the gaze.

Treadwell, a passionate, lover of all things grizzly, was said to have “shot over one hundred hours of footage” (Grizzly Man 00:03:42), most of which involves a stationary camera, observing Alaskan grizzlies in their natural environment. His reasons for doing so, apart from his sheer love for the animals, were “to protect the animals and to educate the public” (00:03:32). However, Treadwell’s relationship with the grizzlies rarely extended beyond observance. He, perhaps unintentionally, set himself apart from the bears, and although he acknowledged that at any given moment the bears could bring about his destruction, he placed himself in a position of power by constantly controlling the gaze. His camera became an extension of himself; the lens became his eyes. Treadwell intended for his footage to educate the public. Often, he would travel from school to school showing his grizzly films. The problem with this is that “the camera fixes [the grizzlies] in a domain which, although entirely visible to the camera, will never be entered by the spectator. [The grizzlies] appear like fish seen through the plate glass of an aquarium” (Berger 16). Fish in an aquarium serve no other purpose than to entertain the spectator and to be observed. The same may be said of Treadwell’s grizzly films. For many, the wilderness and wildlife of Alaska may never be seen with human eyes. Film and photographs become a substitute. However, since Alaska’s grandeur cannot be fully experienced through film the substitute offers a false sense of the reality. This false sense of reality is then observed as one observes fish in an aquarium. When the personal interaction with nature is removed all that is left is the gaze. In the case of Treadwell, what he mistook for a wilderness in need of his protection, I suggest, was in fact his own longings and desires. William Cronon in his essay “The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature” speaks to this:
Wilderness hides its unnaturalness behind a mask that is all the more beguiling because it seems so natural. As we gaze into the mirror it holds up for us, we too easily imagine that what we behold is Nature when in fact we see the reflection of our own unexamined longings and desires. (69-70)
Amidst Treadwell’s longing for that which seemed so organic to him, rest the fact that he was indeed not a part of the nature he longed for. However, this was not evident to him. Thus, he was capable of filming, and with such emphatic entitlement, a species of which he was not a part without any feeling of remorse for having disturbed their natural environment. Treadwell did not simply attempt to enjoy the land; he also wanted to posses it. This possession rests in the one hundred plus hours of film he shot objectifying the natural other.

This is not to say that all of Treadwell’s footage is entirely objectifying. There are a few scenes in which he demonstrates a relationship with his friend Spirit, the fox. I emphasize the word friend to suggest that his friendship transformed his footage of the fox from that of objectifying to more of a home movie. Chapter 7 of the film begins with Treadwell playing a game of chase with Spirit. This footage, when juxtaposed with his footage of the grizzlies, indeed suggests a different relationship. It may be argued that the difference lies in the contrasting natures of each animal. However, Treadwell does not observe Spirit with the eyes of a hunter. His lens does not gaze, placing him in a privileged position as it does with the grizzlies. On the contrary, his camera films Spirit as if he were filming his own child. Spirit is obviously not irritated with him as the grizzlies often are. Spirit is curious of his presence. Unfortunately, his interaction with the grizzlies is not as natural; his camera is not perceived as friendly. Furthermore, much of Treadwell’s footage of the grizzlies takes place at a distance, further emphasizing the camera’s natural ability to observe.

Although Treadwell’s gaze, through the eyes of the camera, is not exploitative in any way, it still creates a power structure. “To photograph,” or film in Treadwell’s case, “is to appropriate the thing photographed. It means putting oneself into a certain relation to the world that feels like knowledge—and therefore, like power” (Sontag 4). This place of power also grants the viewer of his film a privileged position by offering the viewer something the grizzlies will never have, the ability to control the gaze. This is arguably the most powerful element of the camera as a weapon. This is also exceedingly evident in Peter Jackson’s remake of King Kong. In King Kong, we are implicated in the brutal objectification of Kong by simply observing what the camera forces us to see.

It is true; the eyes of Kong are artificial, hollow. They are man made, the product of computer animation. However, they represent more than meets the eye. They represent the otherness of nature, something man longs to posses. They represent strength unknown to man, an unconquered foe. These are all real. Kong is the embodiment of these things. Peter Jackson’s remake of the 1933 film spent a great deal of time perfecting the King. If it is true that the eyes are the mirrors of the soul, then perhaps Jackson desires us to question the nature of Kong, for a great deal of our focus is directed toward his eyes. Kong’s eyes stare, the eyes of the camera gaze. There is a difference. The difference rests in the exercising of power. True, Kong is superior is brute strength. However, in the end even the King is brought to his knees, no match for the one that controls the gaze.

We are introduced to Kong at the end of a sequence of cinema in which the camera observes a group of the human species portrayed as nothing more than spastic beasts. Their eyes are not fit for our gaze, and as such they appear rolled back in their heads, too inferior to make contact with the superior of their species. They dance around as if mere puppets for the King that is sought. They bend to his will. What does it say of them then if the King is conquered by civilization? Perhaps Jackson is suggesting that all of nature must be assimilated into a “civilized” environment. If freewheeling city folk are capable of surviving the challenges presented by the wilderness that is Kong’s Skull Mountain, a feat even its own inhabitants have difficulty in accomplishing, then nature becomes nothing more than a playland for the tourists, as Stacy Alaimo suggests in her essay “Discomforting Creatures: Monstrous Natures in Recent Films:” “nature is coextensive with the ‘third’ world, a playland for tourists. One may visit nature for scenery or even adventure, but every trip concludes with leaving it far behind” (286), and in the case of the film crew, the third world is susceptible to the whims and desires of civilization. Once man takes what he came for, he leaves the “third” world far behind.

Kong is found in his natural habitat, atop Skull Mountain. Similarly, Donna Haraway, in her essay “Teddy Bear Patriarchy: Taxidermy in the Garden of Eden, New York City, 1908-1936” says of the artificially, naturalistic mise-en-scene (of sorts) accompanying the Giant of Karisimbi in his final resting place at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, which is in many regards similar to the mise-en-scene where we meet Kong for the first time: “It would have been inappropriate to meet the gorilla anywhere else but on the mountain” (157). The same is true of Kong. It is vital for us to have met him in this fashion, for it in many ways demonizes him all the more. Finding Kong atop Skull Mountain instills within the viewer a certain amount of fear, a fear evident in the person of Ann Darrow (Watts). The fear invoked by the foreboding mountain is transferred over to Kong, making him that much more horrific. After he claims his prize, his gaze meets the eyes of Carl Denham (Black)

and, through the camera, our eyes. In his gaze, Denham sees what Carl Ackley saw: “the ultimate quarry, a worthy opponent” (Haraway 159). Initially, Denham’s look suggests a feeling of vulnerability and peril, as Alaimo suggests: “being seen means vulnerability” (285). However, immediately after his initial encounter the feeling of vulnerability begins to change. Denham soon discovers that the opposite of Alaimo’s suggestion is also true: seeing means power. He who controls the gaze controls the power. The camera captures Kong’s initial gaze, his ever so brief moment of power and control. Yet, his pending doom overshadows the moment, suggesting that ultimately the power of the gaze belongs to man.

Ultimately, Kong’s gaze, like the gaze of the stuffed and mounted Giant of Kirisimbi, is an artificial gaze, hollow, lifeless. One is the product of glass eyes, as Haraway points out; the other is the product of a digital illusion, a computer program. Both serve as a testament to the idea that the gaze of the animal will forever be lifeless, artificial, and as such, something to be dominated and controlled. The camera’s capturing of the violent act of objectification implicates us, the viewer. The camera grants us a god’s eye view of the world, a view we should not be privy to. Nothing can escape the gaze of the camera. However, the camera alone is nothing but plastic and metal, the same elements that comprise a gun. Alone they are powerless. However, in the hands of a hunter or a photographer, they become the means with which to conquer, to control, to possess.

As an apparatus used for observation, it is easy to see how the camera may be used for objectifying wildlife. The irony is that photographing has become a rite of passage, a sort of conquest, as Sontag points out: “photography is not practiced by most people as an art. It is mainly a social rite … and a tool of power” (8). Often times, a photograph is deemed a perfect substitute for the real thing. Consider the postcard. Postcards are sent because the real thing cannot be. A photograph, whether on high gloss paper or a postcard, offers a reminder of where you were or souvenir of where you have not been.

Photographing Wilderness: The Camera as an Apparatus of Pretense

As a viewer of all things film, it is often difficult to discern between reality and a staged photograph. A photograph of a roaring lion, for example, offers no explanation as to whether or not what is viewed is an actual roaring lion or simply a yawning lion; or perhaps the roaring lion is merely a zoo-caged lion antagonized by a foolish zoo-goer looking for an action shot. The missing element at play here is context. Lack of visual context makes it virtually impossible to know with certainty what we are seeing. The camera’s inability to capture context allows the photographer (and the director) to use this to his advantage by using the camera as an apparatus of pretense.

French filmmakers Jacques Cluzaud, Michel Debats and Jacques Perrin created a beautiful documentary following the migration of birds from primarily the bird’s perspective. In Winged Migration, we are granted the sense of literally flying with the birds. With no context as to how we are seeing what we see, disbelief becomes suspended and we give ourselves up to flight. The camera guides us along the path of a greylag goose throughout the entirety of the film. His journey becomes our own. We are first introduced to this goose about three minutes and thirty seconds into the film. He is flailing about in an attempt to remove himself from a net that ensnares him. A small child eventually cuts him free, leaving a small piece of rope around the goose’s leg. This scene is vital to the film for the simple fact that we, as the viewer, have no idea how he became entangled in the net in the first place. Was he intentionally ensnared for the purpose of being a guide of sorts through the film, the rope around his leg being a marker? By not disclosing this information in the film, the answer to this question is ultimately left up to the viewer. Regardless, the camera intentionally focuses on the rope in mid flight through the length of the film. This crafty tool pales in comparison to the disappointment felt when we finally discover how we are able to fly with the birds. It is not until the bonus featurette “The Making of” that we are informed as to how the flying-with-the-birds technique was accomplished. The use of cameras attached to remote controlled airplanes and cameramen, equipped with cameras, aboard small, flying, go-cart contraptions answers the question to this mystery. During the featurette it becomes clear that the filmmakers must rely heavily on the camera’s inability to capture context, for “the camera’s rendering of reality must always hide more than it discloses” (Sontag 23). The technique of hiding the actuality of how we are able to fly with the birds gives the filmmakers the power to challenge our perception of reality by creating a false reality we gradually accept as we watch the film. Thus, through the camera, we are led to believe things are a certain way when in fact they are not.

The camera’s ability to tinker with perceptions of reality is problematic in the photographing and filming of the natural world, for it gives inaccurate information. This is problematic since photographs in books and magazines, as well as television nature programs are the only source of contact many people have with the natural world. Instead of developing one’s own perception of the natural world through first hand contact, many are content to rely on the camera’s interpretation. However, the camera’s interpretation of reality is never an adequate substitute for the real thing. This is due to the fact that what the camera produces is incapable of adequately conveying what the human eye sees as Richard Latto and Bernard Harper point out in their essay “The Non-Realistic Nature of Photography: Further Reasons Why Turner Was Wrong”:
The representation differs in size from the original image but preserves exactly all its other attributes. This apparent exactness is misleading, however, because the representation of the image in the display system (photographic print, computer screen, etc.) differs from the representation in our brains in a number of different ways. As a result the perception of the photographic representation is distorted and is not an accurate depiction of the object or scene that generated the image in the first place. (243)
What we see when we view a landscape is a 3-dimensional space with our eyes creating the accurate depth of field so that objects in relation to each other’s space are adequately interpreted. This is due to our eyes’ ability to form a single perception from two slightly different images. A photograph cannot accomplish this. When our eyes view a photographic image what we see is a flat, 2-dimensional object. “There is no significant horizontal disparity. This synoptic view of the world (i.e. the same to both eyes) is quite unnatural” (Latto and Harper 245). This explains why a photograph does not look exactly the way it looked when it was framed in the photographer’s eye. Although this function of the camera is more an issue of mechanics than pretense, the resulting still or rapid moving photograph continues to offer a false sense of reality.

Looking again at Winged Migration, many of the shots are long, continuous takes giving the brief impression of a photographic image. These shots, such as the opening

frames of Chapter nine, are often the equivalent of nature pornography2; while they may briefly offer a sense of lustful satisfaction by temporarily curbing one’s desire to be outdoors, they are ultimately incapable of moving one to the extent that they cry out as Henry David Thoreau did as he summated Mt. Katahdin on August 31, 1846:
It was vast, Titanic, and such as man never inhabits. Some part of the beholder, even some vital part, seems to escape through the loose grating of his ribs as he ascends. He is more lone than you can imagine. […] Vast, Titanic, inhuman Nature has got him at a disadvantage, caught him alone, and pilfers him of some of his divine faculty. She does not smile on him as in the plains. She seems to say sternly, why came ye here before your time? This ground is not prepared for you. Is it not enough that I smile in the valleys? I have never made this soil for thy feet, this air for thy breathing, these rocks for thy neighbors. I cannot pity nor fondle thee here, but forever relentlessly drive thee hence to where I am kind. Why seek me where I have not called thee, and then complain because you find me but a stepmother? Shouldst thou freeze or starve, or shudder thy life away, here is no shrine, nor alter, nor any access to my ear. (83-84)
Thoreau’s description of the awe he felt invokes the feeling that he was in the presence of deity. The accompanying view, air, and foreboding sense of loneliness were too much to bear. This surge of emotion is difficult to experience second hand. Even if one were to photograph the view from atop Mt. Katahdin, a mere 5,267 ft. elevation, one could not capture in the photograph: the strain on the muscles, the difficulty of breathing, the bitter chill, all of the physical chores associated with the summit. However, what is captured is a 2-dimensional image of something resembling the view from atop the mountain.

The plethora of nature photographs depicting everything from flora to fauna and all that is found in between help to clutter the spaces of our world “by furnishing this already crowded world with a duplicate one of images” (Sontag 24). In so doing, this gives us a sense that “the world is more available than it really is” (24). We see photographs of mountains in Alaska or giant redwood trees reaching toward the sky and recognize that these things are not in our backyards. Wilderness photography has the power to create within us a sense of longing, a desire for a home other than our own. William Cronon, in his essay “The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” speaks to this romanticizing of the natural world: “Idealizing a distant wilderness too often means not idealizing the environment in which we actually live, the landscape that for better or worse we call home” (85). Viewing photographs of redwoods, for example, tends to make us unhappy with the smaller, native trees in our backyards. The trees that decorate our lawns do not inspire us nor take our breath away as do the larger, fuller developed trees that occupy the spaces of wilderness. The supernaturalness of nature photographs by such photographers as Ansel Adams, while stunning in their

own right, serve to perpetuate the idealization of wilderness by portraying it as a sort of otherworldly getaway. This romanticizing of wilderness tends to “privilege some parts of nature at the expense of others” (Cronon 86). In so doing, the divide between the natural world and man is increased. Wilderness then becomes a place of escape, as well as a place of finding oneself or one’s god. Photographing wilderness perpetuates this ideology by enabling more aesthetic value to be placed on that which is considered wild, and as such unfamiliar. Cronon seeks to challenge this type of thinking by proposing we not celebrate the wilderness just because it is wild, but even more so because it “reminds us of the wildness in our own backyards, of the nature that is all around us if only we have eyes to see it” (86). The nature that exists in beautiful photographs is made of the same elements as the nature in our own backyards, and as such is equally deserving of our love and respect. Although much of the natural world may not be as stunning nor as awe-inspiring as many of the places photographed by artists such as Ansel Adams, this does not mean these places bring us any closer to nature than the natural spaces around us. The natural world captured in a photograph denies us the possibility of union, of relationship. The trees and greenery that exist in our own spaces offer us interaction; through our watering and cultivation we learn about the nature that exists in our own backyards and gain knowledge a photograph is incapable of offering. Interaction with the natural world provides us with the reality of nature, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the not so beautiful, not just that which is frameable, to the extent that we become more aware of the natural spaces around us.


Creating awareness is often difficult for the camera. As I’ve suggested above, the camera cannot capture context and context is essential in the creation of awareness. However, this is not to say that the camera is completely incapable of creating awareness. In fact, in some situations photographs have been essential in prompting change. The photographs of American zoologist Dian Fossey worked to raise awareness of the imminent extinction of African gorillas. Fossey developed a relationship with the gorillas as they began to assimilate her into their culture, and as a result she earned their trust. Her photographs are not of the hunter variety, but instead the result of relationship. What started out as simple photographs of primates eventually led to the establishment of the International Primate Protection League (IPPL), an organization dedicated to active conservation. Founded in 1973 by Shirley McGreal, a friend of Fossey’s, the IPPL is currently represented in 31 countries and continues to work toward the well being of non-human primates3. Dian Fossey’s legacy offers a look at how the camera may be used as an apparatus for the betterment of the non-human species.

Additionally, it was photographs, not Al Gore, that helped raise awareness of climate change. Photographs of melting ice caps offered visual evidence of the reality of global warming. Although, as I’ve suggested above, photographs are incapable of adequately conveying the world as the human eye sees it, they still offer a portion of that reality, and this portion is all that was required to begin the process of thinking about climate change.

I have pointed out a couple of examples where the camera has been used to promote awareness, however this is typically the exception and not the rule as man’s association with the natural world continues to be primarily one of aggression and exploitation. The camera typically serves to perpetuate this association. If we desire to expropriate the camera from this association, “we must find another relationship to nature besides reification, possession, appropriation and nostalgia” (Haraway 126). This must begin on an individual level. Rethinking our relationship with the natural world will ultimately lead us to rethink our reasons for photographing it. What is more, we must also rethink our methods of photographing and perhaps the language we use to describe the photographic process. Aphrodite Navab in her essay “Re-Picturing Photography: A Language in the Making” suggests we rethink our photographic language:
If people were to choose words that more accurately describe the particular photographic process they were talking about, then a greater variety of dimensions and layers of meaning would fill the language of photography, expanding the possible connotations of the medium and the ways of expressing the multiplicity of meanings, values, and uses of photography. (81)
Developing a new language for the photographic process may be a long-term solution to the violent mentality that often accompanies photography and might also force us to rethink our relationship with the subjects we photograph. However, things rarely change overnight, and something as engrained in culture as the language used to describe the photographic process might take some time to revisit.

There really isn’t a way to neatly wrap up this conclusion other than to say that as a photographer I have spent a good amount of time rethinking my reasons for photographing the people, places and objects I choose to photograph, and simply put, I do not take as many photographs as I used to. Photographing landscapes used to be of great interest to me. However, now I choose to put the camera away and simply enjoy the view for what it is, the natural world. Rethinking my reasons for photographing the natural world takes time and effort, but if I am to ever have a relationship other than possession and nostalgia with the natural world, the time and effort are a small price to pay.
Photos (in order of appearance)
  1. Photograph capture of an extreme closeup of King Kong’s eyes (01:11:42) from the film King Kong, directed by Peter Jackson (2006).
  2. Photograph capture of a bald eagle with a portion of the Grand Canyon in the background (00:20:20) from the film Winged Migration, directed by Jacques Perrin, Jacques Cluzaud and Michel Debats (2001).
  3. “The Tetons—Snake River,” Wyoming, by Ansel Adams (1942).
  1. Information on Topsy obtained through Wikipedia: The video of Topsy’s archaic electrocution may be viewed on Youtube:
  2. Copyright Stacy Alaimo, although I do believe her phrase was “environmental porn.”
Works Cited

A complete works cited may be viewed here.