Lukas Felzmann’s Across Ground, a two-volume stunner from Lars Müller Publishers, isn’t the kind of photobook you just flip through in a fifteen minute sit down like some. It asks you to slow down, breathe, and properly look. It’s an antidote to the noise of modern life, a reminder to appreciate the quiet poetry tucked into the parts of California most people speed past. Felzmann, originally from Switzerland but long settled in San Francisco, has spent nearly thirty years tracing the intersection of nature and human presence, and with Across Ground, he’s crafted a deep, meditative journey through the state’s fifty-eight counties, well off the beaten path.

This isn’t a quick-hit project. From 2017 to 2024, Felzmann built it slowly, carefully. The result: two books, Across and Ground, each distinct but in conversation. Think of it as a conceptual map of California’s overlooked spaces, the transitional, in-between places that don’t make the postcards. Using a large-format view camera, he takes a deliberately slowed-down approach, following the coastline, drifting through small towns, paying attention to the edges where things shift. It’s not about capturing flashy scenery; it’s about being fully present in the unnoticed corners, the details that whisper rather than shout.

In Across, Felzmann moves with a quiet curiosity, his lens drawn to the subtle exchanges between the natural world and human marks upon it. There are foothills leading to unseen paths, felled trees measuring time, window reflections blurring the boundaries between inside and out, and floodplains stretching towards imagined horizons. It doesn’t just feel like moving through space, it’s a journey through time, and a nod to the act of photography itself. Felzmann almost treats it like sculpture, shaping an experience that gets flattened into an image. You can feel his presence in the precise framing, a conscious act of showing rather than just capturing.

Then comes Ground, shifting entirely in perspective. Gone is the horizon; instead, Felzmann turns his gaze directly downward, mapping the surface in monochrome. The result? Textures and formations that feel almost like relief carvings, inviting us to notice the very thing beneath our feet. It pulls you into the present, stripping away the grand narrative and forcing you to engage with the now. The imagery is accompanied by reflections from Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Forrest Gander, not captions, but layered thoughts that echo the experience, deepening the way you interpret what’s in front of you.

Photographer Urs Tillmanns nails it in Fotointern when he describes Felzmann’s approach as centring the small, essential details that often hold the most weight. It’s a reminder that, in a world flooded with images, actually seeing takes effort, that lingering over what first seems unimportant can reveal something profound. Felzmann isn’t interested in dramatic landscapes or postcard-worthy views. He’s drawn to quiet moments, the things we instinctively gloss over, gently nudging us to reconsider what’s worth noticing.

Felzmann himself says the fifty-eight counties were more a structure than a focus, a framework to ensure he covered every corner. But the real pull came from the borderlands, the transitional spaces where things shift, where change hums just beneath the surface. He wasn’t chasing famous landmarks or predictable beauty; he was after the overlooked, the quiet resonance present in every place if you stop long enough to see it. It reminds me of a thought from Forrest Gander, reflecting on John Cage’s idea that if something bores you at first, keep looking, eventually, it becomes fascinating.

The conversation between Felzmann and Gander reveals a shared belief: that landscape isn’t just something to admire from a distance. It’s alive, a palimpsest where past and present are always intertwining. Felzmann’s images of abandoned foundations, forgotten paths, remnants of human touch, they’re echoes of what once was, and Gander’s geological insights further ground us in the shifting forces at play.

Ultimately, Across Ground isn’t just a collection of photographs, it’s an invitation. To reconsider how we engage with place, to look beyond surface impressions, to connect with the quiet stories buried in the land. It’s a testament to seeing properly, to appreciating the unnoticed beauty around us. Crafted with Lars Müller’s characteristic mindfulness, these two books aren’t just something to flip through, they’re objects to hold, to reflect on, to return to. Each visit shifts the perspective slightly, offering fresh ways of engaging with the quiet landscapes that exist all around us, just across the ground.

Regards

Alex