There are certain books that land with a quiet yet profound thud on your desk, and as you open them, you know, with every fibre of your being, that you are about to embark on something truly special. Michael Lundgren’s Glass Mountain, from the experts in tactile beauty at Stanley/Barker, is precisely that kind of photobook. It’s a work that doesn’t just offer images, it invites you into a deep, almost hallucinatory meditation on time, memory, and the very sentience of the earth beneath our feet. This at once resonated with me, drawing me back to those solitary moments I spend documenting the ancient stones and forgotten paths in Aberdeen’s graveyards, places where the veil between past and present feels impossibly thin. Lundgren, much like those quiet, stoic memorials, asks us to listen to the whispers of the land, to feel its history hum.

From the very first page, Glass Mountain shows its dreamlike, almost occult, presence. The first image, a cage like structure woven from branches appearing from the darkness, with wisps of smoke rising towards a sky absolutely studded with diamond like stars, at once set the tone. It was an electrifying opening, a clear signal that this was no ordinary landscape book. This felt like stepping into a waking dream, a place where the familiar shifts into something deeply unfamiliar yet utterly compelling. It’s the kind of image that stays with you, a testament to the fact that Lundgren’s vision goes far beyond mere documentation, he is capturing the unseen, the felt, the profound undercurrents of the wild.

Lundgren’s exploration of the “uneasy meditation on transformation and the eerie sentience of the inanimate” is a philosophical thread woven throughout the entire collection. His images depict places that truly seem to exist beyond the field of time, where stones hold memory and the earth hums with a silent awareness with each image having an almost still, painting like feel which in itself is quite eerie. This concept appeals to me deeply, as I often find myself searching for those lingering energies, those forgotten narratives embedded in ancient structures and natural formations. It’s an invitation to perceive nature not as a static backdrop, but as a living, breathing entity in a perpetual state of becoming.

The sheer artistry in Lundgren’s vision and its meticulous execution by Stanley/Barker is something to behold. I have always held Stanley/Barker in such high regard for their commitment to the physicality of the photobook, and Glass Mountain is no exception. Its presentation is exceptional, reflecting their dedication to bringing forth books of substance and depth, it has actually been sat on my table waiting for me to look through for over a week now and I always found myself being drawn by the shining dotted text or noticing the way it is reflected upside down or when I noticed the image in the background of it so even the cover is worth exploring. The way Lundgren manipulates colour and tone, even within seemingly stark landscapes, is stunning. There’s an image, for example, that looks into what I believe is the roof or opening of some kind of cave like structure, where subtle reds, greens, and yellows bleed from what might be graffiti, yet it feels entirely organic, a part of the earth’s own palette. Another image featuring thousands of flat, slate like stones, made in the most stunning earthy tones, is a visual poem to the elemental, reminding us of the quiet power held within the ancient.

Some of the standing stones within the book gave me an immediate sense of ancient Greek god statues, their forms grand and imposing on lush, mossy hills. These aren’t just rocks, they’re silent witnesses, imbued with a stoic grandeur that feels almost sacred. This particular image resonated with my interest in ancient cultures and the ways in which humans have always looked to connect with, and even deify, the natural world.

There is a breathtaking image that captures what looks like both sunset and daybreak simultaneously, with mountainsides flanking a central expanse of clouds, all framed by a shiny, pebbly beach. In the foreground, a single, larger rock stands sentinel. This photograph is a masterclass in evoking the cyclical nature of time, the constant ebb and flow of light and shadow, reminding me of those moments where you feel utterly insignificant yet profoundly connected to something much larger than yourself. It speaks to the impermanence of light, yet the enduring presence of the land.

The flash work in Glass Mountain is, quite simply, incredible. Lundgren uses it not as an intrusive burst, but as a revealer of hidden presences, pulling out textures and depths from the darkness that feel almost supernatural. This technique enhances the hallucinatory quality of the images, challenging our sense of reality and forcing us to confront a “hidden presence embedded in the land.” It’s an unflinching look into the quiet mysteries of the wild, showing a true appreciation for craft and process, pushing the boundaries of what a landscape photograph can convey.

Lundgren’s contemplation of humanity’s “shift away from an Earth centred mythology,” where we once looked to the sun, stars, and moon as our maps but now follow “different guiding stars,” struck a melancholic chord. It speaks to a profound societal undercurrent, a growing disconnection from the very essence of our planet. This book, then, becomes an attempt to question, and perhaps to restore, that original, vital connection to the earth. It prompts us to consider the broader implications of our relationship with the natural world, and how art can serve as a powerful conduit for that reflection.

Glass Mountain is an electrifying journey into the sublime, unsettling beauty of the wild. It’s a book that demands slow, deliberate viewing, allowing its deep philosophical themes to seep into your consciousness. Lundgren, with the exceptional support of Stanley/Barker, has crafted a collection that is both visually stunning and intellectually stimulating, a testament to the idea that the earth itself is a living organism, always in a state of becoming, always remembering. This is a book that I will return to again and again, each time discovering new sides of its profound, echoing silence.

Regards

Alex