Sarah Christianson
The older I get, the more I feel compelled to learn and educate myself on subjects like the environment and conservation. I grew up with a love of the landscape here in California, but always in my younger years, I’d had that “I’ve got forever to get things done” kind of attitude. Nothing seemed sufficiently urgent other than my gratification from a variety of means. These days, however, the urgency is indeed staring us all right in the face and tapping us on the forehead. I feel as though I’ve been giving extra attention lately through my special projects like this one, as well as Analog Forever Magazine, from where this particular interview originated. I felt it was time to discuss it again here and bring some needed attention to matters of the land.
Being a fan of history and the landscape, it comes as no surprise that I would be drawn to Sarah Christianson’s project When the Landscape is Quiet Again. I distinctly remember when I met Sarah at Review Santa Fe in 2019. She sat down and showed me prints from her project and mentioned that she was originally from North Dakota and examined the effects of oil booms and busts in the eastern part of the state. I was a little surprised, mostly because I didn’t know that anything happened in North Dakota since I’d never seemed to hear about it from anyone before, nor did I know anyone from there (a very naive thought, I will admit to). The reality was that this was a severe issue of the raping of the land in pursuit of its natural resources from a beautiful rural landscape. Sarah was extremely knowledgeable on the subject and genuinely invested in bringing more eyes to the issue through her project. This was very personal for her. The passion for the story she was willing to tell was palpable, and I was sucked in immediately. My thanks go out to Sarah for her willingness to help me understand and answer some questions about the story and how she goes about handling the logistics and creative side of it all. My eyes are open now to what’s happening, and I’m thrilled that Sarah helps us all understand and bring voice to this critical issue.
Flaring near the Blue Buttes, January 2015
Natural gas is being flared off in North Dakota due to a lack of infrastructure. Before new policies were adopted in 2014, upwards of 30% was being burned and wasted.
Bio -
Sarah Christianson (b. 1982) grew up on a four-generation family farm in the heart of eastern North Dakota's Red River Valley (an hour north of Fargo). Immersed in that vast expanse of the Great Plains, she developed a strong affinity for its landscape. This connection to place has had a profound effect on her work: despite moving to San Francisco in 2009, she continues to document the subtleties and nuances of the Midwestern landscape and experience through long-term projects.
Christianson earned an MFA in photography from the University of Minnesota. Her work has been exhibited internationally and can be found in the collections of Duke University, the National Museum of Photography in Copenhagen, and several institutions in the Midwest. She has received grants from the San Francisco Arts Commission and the Center for Cultural Innovation. Christianson’s first book, Homeplace (Daylight Books, Fall 2013), documents the history and uncertain future of her family’s farm by interweaving her images with old snapshots and historical documents culled from her personal archive. Her current project, When the Landscape is Quiet Again, examines the oil boom occurring in western North Dakota. Throughout her work, she uses her personal experiences and connection to the land to evoke a strong sense of place, history, and time.
Interview -
Michael Kirchoff: Thank you for joining me, Sarah. I think I’d like to start with your start and find out a little of what led you into the visual arts and what some of your earliest inspirations were in doing so.
Sarah Christianson: Thanks for having me! I think that I’ve always needed a creative outlet, whether it be art, music, or writing. I started snapping pictures with a point-and-shoot camera when I was a kid. My parents dutifully brought every roll to town, 12 miles away, for processing—no matter how cliché the results were. I took endless pictures of cats, barns, and sunsets. When I could finally drive myself to town, I charged all the film processing to my parents’ account at the drug store. One time the bill was so high that they ordered me to stop taking pictures, but I didn’t listen.
As my curiosity grew, I began assisting a local wedding photographer, Gail Mooney. Her daughter, Kate, was in my grade at school, and one day she caught me reading photography “how-to” books during math class. Kate begged me to take over as her mother’s assistant, which she was forced to do. Working for Gail gave me a lot of hands-on experience with lighting and SLR cameras, both of which were completely new to me. I knew this was just the tip of the iceberg—and that I did not want to be a wedding photographer!—so I decided to study photography at Minnesota State University Moorhead.
One of the things that initially inspired me was the final project for the intro to photo class. It was called “Stealing from the Rich.” We had to research a famous photographer and emulate their work in a series of five images. I chose Walker Evans and his Farm Security Administration work, so I could photograph my grandparents and their farmhouse. That way of making images about my family and creating a sense of place really resonated with me.
MK: The work we are highlighting here is from When the Landscape is Quiet Again: North Dakota’s Oil Boom, and I wonder what the impetus for specifically using film in the creation of this work was? Had traditional film use been a part of your other projects as well?
SC: I’ve always shot film for my projects, and I don’t see this changing any time soon. It’s a passion, a labor of love. The magic of the darkroom enthralls me, and I love coaxing images out of the materials, light, and chemistry. I find that I have a deeper relationship with my images because of this. Shooting film slows me down—in the best way possible. I’m more careful and considered in my approach when I’m committing it to film. There’s a seductive quality to 4x5 negatives, too. The historian and archivist in me also loves the physicality of film and amassing this giant collection of negatives that can be passed on to future generations.
MK: Do you ever think that adopting a digital workflow would enhance or change the images you are making in any way? What about using film is a necessary component for you?
SC: Shooting color film for this project was absolutely necessary because I wanted to print the images as traditional c-prints at RayKo Photo Center. I felt really lucky to have access to these facilities, as there aren’t many color darkrooms left out there. Compared to a digital workflow, the color darkroom strips away your choices for adjustments. I needed these limited parameters because I was intimidated by color photography. Prior to this, most of my projects were done in black and white, so I did not feel confident in my ability to evaluate and adjust color accurately. Paring it back to the basics—lighter/darker, Cyan/Red, Green/Magenta, Blue/Yellow—allowed me to understand the color that was inherently in the negatives I was creating. Eventually, through this way of printing, color no longer intimidated me.
Unfortunately, RayKo closed in 2017, so I now employ a hybrid approach: I scan my film on an Imacon scanner (purchased from RayKo) and make inkjet prints in my home studio. However, I don’t think my skills and confidence with color corrections and printing would be the same without having first worked in the color darkroom.
The Badlands south of Medora, July 2014
Infrastructure from the state’s two prior boom-and-bust cycles can still be found across the landscape, like this 1970s era flare stack. Aging equipment is one of the leading causes of spills and environmental contamination.
Carole at her parents’ graves, July 2016
Carole is a fourth-generation rancher near Watford City, in the heart of the oil patch. She says, “Nobody understands what this costs me as a landowner. We all wanted this oil development. We just didn’t know what we were in for. Even half of what we got would’ve been too much. Our way of life has changed. It’s never going to be the same… I’m glad that my Mom & Dad didn’t live to see this.”
Flaring seen from Carole’s ranch, May 2019
Bakken Crew Lodges man camp near Grassy Butte, July 2016
Drilling rig near Little Missouri National Grasslands, May 2013
At the peak of the Bakken Boom, there were 217 drilling rigs operating within the state.
Pipeline through Brenda & Richard Jorgenson’s land, May 2013
The Jorgensons fought to keep this 12 inch, 2200psi natural gas pipeline off their land. Their ranch was homesteaded by Richard’s grandfather in 1915, and they wanted to safeguard it for future generations of their family. When they refused to sign an easement for the project, Alliance Pipeline seized their land through eminent domain.
MK: In the artist statement for When the Landscape is Quiet Again, you mention that you started this project in 2012. How long do you foresee this collection continuing, and did you have any knowledge back then that it would blossom into such a wide-ranging endeavor? Will there be an end date to it?
SC: I’m beginning to feel as if the project is winding down because I’m starting to get interested in ideas for other things. When I started working on this eight years ago, I definitely knew it was going to be a long-term thing. That’s just how I work. Part of it was the learning curve, too: I was unfamiliar with the oil industry and what I was seeing. It took a while for me to feel comfortable out there, and I also needed time to develop relationships with people that were being impacted.
It’s the type of project that could go on indefinitely because there will always be more spills and heartaches and stories to tell. And who knows—maybe I’ll revisit it again at some point in the future when there’s more I want to say. That’s what’s happening now with my previous project Homeplace. I’m starting to expand upon that work.
MK: Ah yes, and in 2013 you had published a monograph through Daylight Books called Homeplace. This work concentrated on the farm that was your early home, before leaving for San Francisco in 2009. Do you see this collection as a sort of early chapter that led you into the larger work of When the Landscape is Quiet Again?
SC: The two projects are related but different: they both present a cross-section of rural life in North Dakota, but Homeplace examines my paternal heritage and the fertile farmland in the eastern part of the state and the oil project my maternal line and the new industrialized landscape of the western half. When I first signed the contract with Daylight in 2012 to publish Homeplace, I had a moment of panic—not about the cost of publishing the book (because I’d already had a lot of those!)—but because I didn’t know what was next with my work. I didn’t want to have a “sophomore slump” if you will, so I needed to find another project. That’s when I took my first quick trip to the oil patch, to see the Bakken Boom in action. I was intrigued by the sensational stories of man camps and the Wild West atmosphere and because my family was involved in it. I had to see it for myself.
MK: Can you tell us more about how When the Landscape is Quiet Again became the project it is, and what brought you to reveal some hard truths about yourself and your family that may not be so comfortable for someone to embrace as you have?
SC: During that initial shooting trip, a distant relative showed me an oil well from the 1980s that had been abandoned and never cleaned up. Later, further research revealed there were over 200 such wells rusting away in the state. I was outraged that the rules for remediation were being ignored. It seemed to me that everyone was oblivious to the past and that booms will inevitably bust. Instead, what mattered was the here-and-now: jobs were plentiful in North Dakota despite a national economic downturn, shale oil was the promised key to our independence from foreign oil, and North Dakota was now the second largest oil-producing state behind Texas. All this led to a horrible epiphany: if the remnants of prior booms weren’t being cleaned up, then the future of North Dakota was extremely bleak because the Bakken Boom was far greater in scale and magnitude. Over 10,000 new wells had been drilled, and that was only the beginning. I felt a responsibility to document the scars from prior boom-and-bust cycles and the new wounds being inflicted upon my home because the status quo had to change: something needed to be left for the next generation, not just the next quarter.
In all of my projects, I’m motivated by a personal connection. I feel as if I have more of an authority to tell these stories. As I mentioned earlier, my family is involved in the boom because of choices my ancestors made over a hundred years ago. In 1912, my maternal great-grandparents homesteaded near Watford City—in the heart of the future oil patch. Although my family sold this farm in 1967, we retained some of the sub-surface mineral rights. Therefore, my mom and her brothers collect royalties from oil wells that tap into this land, even though our family hasn’t lived in that part of North Dakota for over 50 years. Our involvement is what sets my project apart from others on the Bakken Boom. It’s not an easy position to be in, but I’m using that tension to reconcile the boom’s economic prosperity with its environmental impacts.
MK: It appears that when oil drilling began in North Dakota it was only about that specifically, and perhaps seemed a bit more innocuous than now. The more recent ways of finding oil, not to mention fracking, have changed the equation dramatically. How has this affected the natural environment that you grew up in, and are there any steps being taken to alleviate the resulting damage that is occurring at what seems to be an accelerated pace?
SC: First of all, it was never innocuous. One example is saltwater, also known as brine or produced water. It’s a natural byproduct of oil extraction. It’s mixed in with the oil and natural gas underground, but it’s a waste product. During the first booms, saltwater was disposed of in unlined, open-air evaporation ponds. Eventually, this practice was outlawed because the “salts” in saltwater are actually heavy metals like cadmium, chromium, lead, arsenic, etc—you know, all those cancer-causing elements. And don’t forget about the trace amounts of naturally occurring radioactive material, too! Saltwater burns the land and renders it sterile. In the 1980s, studies were conducted on these former evaporation ponds and found that the contamination had spread outward to 500 feet and downward to 70 feet, in the span of just 30 years. Nowadays, saltwater is re-injected back underground for disposal, but leaks and spills are still happening at an alarming rate.
Fracking has changed the region dramatically because it unlocked North Dakota’s difficult-to-extract oil, trapped in tiny pockets of dense shale rock. North Dakota’s transformation from agrarian to industrial was underscored in 2014 when oil surpassed agriculture as the state’s primary economic force.
Unfortunately, a lot of the proposed legislation for increased environmental protections and more stringent regulations of the oil industry has failed in North Dakota. Those in power fear that any limitations will be an undue imposition. In fact, when fines are levied against companies for spills, they’re often reduced to laughable amounts because regulators don’t want to bankrupt the offenders—they want them to keep doing business in the state. Thankfully, there are a number of groups and individuals working to change the status quo, like the Dakota Resource Council, Fort Berthold POWER (Protector of Water and Earth Rights), and the Northwest Landowners Association to name a few.
Well site carved out of bluffs near the Badlands, August 2013
The Lakota called this area “mako sica” or “land bad.” French-Canadian fur trappers did the same, claiming these were “bad lands to travel through” because of the rugged terrain. Although no drilling is taking place within Teddy Roosevelt National Park, the noises and sights of oil development along its borders are clear.
“Buffalo Pad” near Skunk Bay, Ft. Berthold Reservation, July 2014
The oil industry is trying to minimize environmental impacts by building larger well pads with multiple oil wells on them. These “ECO-Pads” reduce the overall amount of land needed per individual well.
Shale Shaker Street, July 2015
North Dakota’s oil is trapped in small pockets within dense shale rock formations. To unlock the oil, wells are drilled horizontally through these layers and fracked with a high-pressure mix of water, sand, and chemicals.
“We’re on Our Way,” Glenburn, September 2013
1 million gallons of saltwater spilled, Ft. Berthold Reservation, July 2014
This toxic wastewater flowed downhill over two miles to Lake Sakakawea, leaving a swath of dead trees and vegetation in its wake. Saltwater is a natural byproduct of oil extraction. It can be 30 times saltier than the ocean and may contain trace amounts of heavy metals and naturally occurring radioactive materials.
Million gallon saltwater spill site, Ft. Berthold Reservation, July 2015
A year after this spill occurred, Lisa & Walter DeVille examine the still-contaminated ravine leading to Lake Sakakawea. Although tribal officials believed their water supply was not affected, a study conducted by Duke University researchers proved otherwise.
MK: Has there been any pushback from the community on what you are doing in documenting the process and long-term damage being done? What about the feelings of your own family? Do they come into play during your investigation?
SC: Pushback? No, not yet anyway. I don’t think this project has a big enough or high enough profile yet. The landowners and residents I’ve worked with have been grateful that someone is taking an interest in their story and struggles and documenting what’s happening. As for my family, it’s been an eye-opener for them. They live on the eastern edge of the state, outside of the oil patch. A lot of what I’ve discovered and photographed was news to them, so it’s helped raise their awareness. They’re very supportive of my work, and they understand that I’m not condemning them. I’m trying to advocate for responsible development, like former North Dakota Governor Art Link who said, “We do not want to halt progress… We simply want to insure the most efficient and environmentally sound method of utilizing our precious resources for the benefit of the broadest number of people possible. And when we are through with that and the landscape is quiet again, let those who follow and repopulate the land be able to say, our grandparents did their job well. The land is as good and in some cases better than before.”
MK: You’re documenting a rather large expanse of the state, and I’m curious if there has to be some form of collaboration taking place in the making of these photographs? Do you need to solicit help in gaining access to certain areas? A fair number of images are done from an aerial viewpoint as well. How are these situations handled?
SC: It’s absolutely a collaboration. I’ve built relationships with a number of people in the region who are being affected by the boom in various ways. We talk about their concerns and experiences, they show me the impacts to their land and way of life, and I figure out how to create meaningful photographs that convey all that. They’re the ones actually living in the midst of all that mess, so I rely heavily upon their first-hand knowledge. I’ve worked with Carole Freed the longest. She’s a fourth-generation rancher near Watford City, kitty-corner from my great-grandparents old homestead. I stay at her place on all my shooting trips. She’s largely responsible for my education in the oil industry by driving me around the area, explaining all the development and equipment, and how things used to be versus what they have become. Carole is always full of ideas: why don’t you shoot this? What about that—you haven’t done much of that yet, have you? Let’s go talk to so-and-so.
For making the aerial photographs, it’s a collaboration with the pilot: these are the sites I want to photograph, how can we make that happen. They’re very responsive to my requests for higher or lower vantage points, approaching from different directions, or circling on points. Oftentimes, this is the only perspective that will capture the context and magnitude of the environmental impacts, like spills, because of the state’s relatively flat topography. For some of the major spills and train derailments I’ve photographed, I knew it would be impossible to get on-the-ground access, so it’s just easier to shoot them from the air. There aren’t many restrictions then. The only limit on my aerial sessions is money: it’s $210 per hour for the pilot to fly me around in a small Cessna plane. A lot of people ask if I’ll switch to drone photography, but I’m not interested: like the darkroom, there’s something magical about being up in the air.
MK: Do you find it better to previsualize your images mindfully, or work more intuitively? Or perhaps a particular situation dictates this?
SC: It’s a mix. For the first few shooting trips, I worked more intuitively because this oil landscape was completely new to me. I had a lot of “scouting” days, where I picked a new part of the oil patch to investigate and just spent the day driving around there—looking, seeing, taking notes and snapshots. If I saw something really compelling, then I’d break out the 4x5. As the project progressed, I found I needed to do less of this type of shooting. With each successive trip, I knew better what I wanted to photograph and how and what gaps I needed to fill in the project.
When I do aerial photography sessions, I have a list of places to photograph, like the spill sites and pipelines I’ve been documenting at regular intervals. I discuss the shooting list with the pilot, so they can figure out the best route. But I’m always on the alert for new things, moments of serendipity. That’s how I made the image Well site carved out of bluffs near the Badlands, August 2013. We were flying in the vicinity of the North Unit of Teddy Roosevelt National Park, and I was shocked to see this massive well site cut and inserted into the rough terrain—miles away from anything else. I asked the pilot to circle back for a better shot.
Some of the images I’ve made more intuitively end up influencing how I shoot and plan other photographs. Case in point: Drilling rig near Little Missouri National Grasslands, May 2013 was made by complete chance. I was riding around with distant relatives on a tour of the oil boom activity near their farm. The light was fading fast on our way back to their place when I saw this glowing spaceship-like drilling rig perched on a hill. It looked entirely alien in the Grasslands. I asked my relatives to pull over—I had to photograph this! As I framed up the shot, I remember being so upset that the car’s headlights were aimed into the scene. I thought they would ruin my shot, but there was no time to change it. I was rushing to capture what little ambient light was left. If I waited any longer, there’d be no detail in the landscape or I’d over-expose the drilling rig. When I saw the contact sheet a few weeks later, I was blown away: the sweep of light and color from the headlights in the foreground absolutely made the image!
Fast forward to 2016. I initially stumbled upon the “Home!” sign in Bakken Crew Lodges man camp near Grassy Butte, July 2016 during the early afternoon. It was the perfect visual metaphor for the project. Excited by my discovery, I started photographing, but it didn’t feel right. Here was “Home!” ripped and torn, both literally and figuratively, and in the daylight it looked anything but forlorn. And then the image of the drilling rig in the grasslands at dusk came to mind: that’s what this scene needed! So I went back three days later, before sunrise, when conditions were right, to get the shot I wanted. I used the headlights from my Dad’s pickup to illuminate the sign and a long exposure to capture some motion from the wind.
MK: For you, what is it that makes for a successful photograph that illustrates the point of view you are trying to make?
SC: For me, the image has to do one of two things. It either has to reveal something new to the viewer—to elicit that “I had no idea this was happening!” response—or it has to transport them there, so they can begin to feel what it’s like to live in the middle of Bakken Hell. If an image can do both, even better.
Mandaree Pow Wow, July 2015
Dakota Access Pipeline construction near Standing Rock, October 2016
This heavily protested pipeline carries oil from western North Dakota to its terminus in Illinois. It bores underneath the Missouri River, less than a mile from the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation.
Thunderstorm near Alexander, July 2015
Thousand Dollar Way, February 2016
TJ’s Salvage Yard, February 2016
After the Bakken Boom experienced its first bust in 2014, many oilfield workers simply walked away and abandoned their makeshift housing. Scores of RVs and trailers were towed from the region’s man camps to this salvage yard on Highway 85, just south of Williston.
Oil tanker north of Williston, February 2016
MK: What is it that you get out of making photographs? Is there an overriding theme in your work that you feel best represents you as an artist? Do you have a primary objective in your photographic pursuits?
SC: The act of photographing is highly meditative for me, almost selfish in a way. I get to be outside and lose myself in the landscape, to shut out other concerns. It’s a type of communion. I also like creating a record of time and place and people. I’m deeply influenced by my upbringing in North Dakota. Wallace Stegner sums it up best with this line from his book Wolf Willow (1955), “Expose a child to a particular environment at his susceptible time and he will perceive in shapes of that environment until he dies.”
MK: Do you feel like your images would help begin discussions about conservation of the land amidst the drilling being done in North Dakota? Is there a goal in bringing more awareness, and hopefully more problem solving with your work?
SC: Definitely. I’ve presented this project to groups of North Dakota state legislators and in support of the state’s Clean Water, Wildlife, and Parks measure, which unfortunately failed. In San Francisco, I’ve partnered with Earth Justice and the Sierra Club for a panel discussion. Some of the North Dakota families I’ve worked with have shown my images to other congress people and committees in Washington, DC. Raising awareness is something I want the work to do, but I also struggle with my part in that. My strengths lie in making the photographs, so I’ve been working with other people to get the images into the hands of those whose talents lie in effecting change.
MK: What is next for this work, and do you see taking on any new projects in the near future?
SC: I’d like to publish the project as a book and exhibit it more widely. I’m always working on something else, too. Every time I go back to North Dakota, I still make photographs around our farm. At first, I just considered these “warming up” images because I rarely, if ever, use my 4x5 in California. They were simply a way for me to shake the cobwebs out of my head. After a while, it became apparent that they were turning into something more—the sequel to Homeplace. I’m finding that the questions I raised in that project, concerning the future of our farm, are now being answered. As the oil project winds down, I’m starting to make small gelatin silver test prints of this new work, so I can start living with these images and figuring out what they want to be and what I want to say. I’m also researching other family stories, too, so who knows where that will eventually lead. No matter what I’m working on, though, it’s always inspired by my home and family.
You can find more of Sarah’s work on her website here.
You can pick up your own copy of Homeplace here.
*This interview was originally published in its entirety in Analog Forever Magazine, Edition 2, here.
All photographs from When the Landscape is Quiet Again, ©Sarah Christianson
