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Peculiar to look at a photograph and know that is lying to you. Whereas earlier photographs attempted surfacing the submerged American desolation as gloomy crepuscularities, these photographs are content to know it, gleam brightly with it. Adams been arranging horribly blank photographs for decades, and, while occasionally their mannerist brooding bordered on melodrama, there is, here, an overt admittance that this is all surface, it's stated as much on the wall, the effervescent forest camouflages the acres of clearcut behind it, empty wasteland inside.
See too: Kaspar Müller at Société
