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Animal People, by Frans Lanting

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The native people of Canada’s West Coast are renowned for their carvings of animals on totem poles and great masks. This powerful material culture is paralleled by a rich narrative tradition. Some stories are widely told; others are considered the legacy of certain bands or families. One day during a summer I spent documenting this culture, a Kwakiutl elder on Gilford Island named Jimmy Smith honored me by sharing a legend that belongs to his people. He took me to a sacred cave deep in the forest, where he told me this story:

Once upon a time, he said, all creatures on the face of the earth were one. Even though they looked different on the outside, they all spoke the same language. At certain times, they would come together at this cave to celebrate their unity. When they arrived at the entrance, they all took off their skins. Raven shed his feathers, Bear his fur and Salmon her scales. Inside the cave they danced. But one day a human, attracted by the commotion, crawled into the cave and surprised the animals in the act of dancing. Embarrassed by their nakedness they fled, and that was the last time they revealed themselves this way.

The mythical understanding that underneath their separate identities all animals are one has been a guiding principle in my work. I aim to get past the feathers, fur and scales. I like to get under the skin. Sometimes it’s easy to see the connections between humans and the rest of creation. The bonds are clear in the case of chimpanzees and bonobos: To look into their eyes is to imagine ancient ties. With cold-blooded creatures like crocodiles, I have to take more time and reach in the recesses of my own mind to conjure a sense of their world.

People who think of me as a wildlife photographer sometimes ask if I ever photograph people. The question implies a separation between humans and other animals that doesn’t exist for me. People are always present in my photographs, whether the images appear to be of sanderlings, chameleons or cougars. You just have to look past their disguises.

We share up to 98 percent of our genes with our closest relatives in the animal kingdom. As a photographer, I try to use that small difference in our genetic makeup, which has given us the ability to imagine, and look at all that we have in common with other living things. When I raise my camera to other creatures, I drop my skin like the animals of the sacred cave. That’s when I can see who they really are.

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Animal People, by Frans Lanting	002761-01.jpg
The native people of Canada’s West Coast are renowned for their carvings of animals on totem poles and great masks. This powerful material culture is paralleled by a rich narrative tradition. Some stories are widely told; others are considered the legacy of certain bands or families. One day during a summer I spent documenting this culture, a Kwakiutl elder on Gilford Island named Jimmy Smith honored me by sharing a legend that belongs to his people. He took me to a sacred cave deep in the forest, where he told me this story: Once upon a time, he said, all creatures on the face of the earth were one. Even though they looked different on the outside, they all spoke the same language. At certain times, they would come together at this cave to celebrate their unity. When they arrived at the entrance, they all took off their skins. Raven shed his feathers, Bear his fur and Salmon her scales. Inside the cave they danced. But one day a human, attracted by the commotion, crawled into the cave and surprised the animals in the act of dancing. Embarrassed by their nakedness they fled, and that was the last time they revealed themselves this way. The mythical understanding that underneath their separate identities all animals are one has been a guiding principle in my work. I aim to get past the feathers, fur and scales. I like to get under the skin. Sometimes it’s easy to see the connections between humans and the rest of creation. The bonds are clear in the case of chimpanzees and bonobos: To look into their eyes is to imagine ancient ties. With cold-blooded creatures like crocodiles, I have to take more time and reach in the recesses of my own mind to conjure a sense of their world. People who think of me as a wildlife photographer sometimes ask if I ever photograph people. The question implies a separation between humans and other animals that doesn’t exist for me. People are always present in my photographs, whether the images appear to be of sanderlings, chameleons or cougars. You just have to look past their disguises. We share up to 98 percent of our genes with our closest relatives in the animal kingdom. As a photographer, I try to use that small difference in our genetic makeup, which has given us the ability to imagine, and look at all that we have in common with other living things. When I raise my camera to other creatures, I drop my skin like the animals of the sacred cave. That’s when I can see who they really are.