Becoming a parent brings on a whole new crop of anxieties — about separation, about the future, about time (or lack thereof). After the birth of her daughter, photographer Rose Marie Cromwell felt it all, as she recently told the Cut from her home in Miami. “I started to look at my own mortality. My parents are on their way out, my daughter is on her way in, and I’m at this precipice in the middle,” she says. In her latest project, A Geographical Survey, she examines these anxieties in the wide-open spaces of the American West, merging the places she traveled in her childhood with her newfound perspective as a mother. “I find comfort in these places, where you feel smaller in the landscape,” she says. “When I go to the West, in my soul, I feel at home.”
Cromwell was born in Sacramento and raised largely in Seattle, where her parents divorced and her mother’s new partner, Cromwell’s stepdad, became an influential figure in her upbringing. He was raised in rural Montana, surrounded by cowboys, and, over the course of family road trips, would tell tales of growing up out West. “Seeing the landscapes and learning about indigenous communities’ connection to them was very formative for me,” Cromwell recalls.
She grew up with a speech impediment, but in fifth grade found a new language through photography. “I felt that what I could say through photographs was more articulate than what I could say verbally,” she says. Her mom soon bought her a small point-and-shoot camera of her own, and Cromwell proceeded to photograph everything. In particular, she remembers how, during large family Christmas gatherings, she’d shoot all the trash that accumulated. “I was always drawn to things that weren’t obvious.”
It’s this curiosity that took Cromwell to Cuba in her 20s to observe how other communities organized politically, and to Panama while working on her master’s degree, where she photographed populations living on the edges of the biggest thoroughfare of world trade. Both experiences felt intensely personal to Cromwell, but it was only after her daughter, Simone, was born that she turned the lens around.
Eclipse, an earlier series that documents her first days of motherhood, began after a traumatic birth experience that left Cromwell hemorrhaging after delivery. All of the complicated feelings, physical and emotional, were dampened by an overwhelming joy at welcoming Simone, “who was here and was healthy.” And so Cromwell began photographing the out-of-body experience she was living. At first, she would share iPhone shots on a private Instagram account: her in her hospital underwear, or a big blood clot that she’d expelled, or her placenta pills. The photographs resonated, most notably with her publisher, who urged her to turn them into a book.
That was the work that birthed A Geographical Survey, a project that she considers to still be in its early stages. All throughout her time spent working in South America and the Caribbean, “I did have that question lingering in my head, ‘Why haven’t I been back home?’ I hadn’t looked at my own identity through where I’m from.” With this work, she’s doing just that.
Beginning in March 2022 and continuing over the course of several road trips across the West, Cromwell photographed her mother and her daughter alongside these harsh yet beautiful landscapes. They visited Earthship communities of sustainable homes in New Mexico and off-the-grid locations in Northern California. Cromwell was amazed by her own mother’s willingness and adaptability. “This was the first time she’d used a compost toilet. Afterwards, she was really into it.”
A Geographical Survey juxtaposes the intimacy of familial bonds with the emptiness of the desert landscape. It captures Cromwell where she is now, anxious about what will be but compelled to document her mother and daughter in this moment, in their growing and aging bodies. Through it, she sees a future for Simone. “I want her to be exposed to that feeling of calmness that nature brings, to be able to recognize that that is important,” Cromwell says, reflecting on their travels.
One night, while camping in a desert in Colorado, Cromwell and her daughter sat together and watched the sun set over the sand dunes. “She was just one and a half, but was so mesmerized. We both were. I want her to be able to experience all those kinds of things in her life. That’s the beauty of being alive.”
“I was looking at the history of western landscapes and how they had been made by white men on expeditions to colonize the West. I want to broaden the definition of what we think of as traditional landscape, which is the horizon line. I’m interested in landscapes where we can immerse ourselves a little bit more, feel more of a connection to the land, and hopefully, maybe then, [heed] a call to action.”
“I feel like image-making is a ritual. It’s a way to become closer to somebody,” Cromwell said. “I like my personal work to go in a more performative direction. I can have more creativity. It’s very reflective of where I’ve been in my life, where I’m living, what I’m doing. Now, as a mom, and as somebody realizing that my time with my mom is also limited, it’s important that I spend time with both of them now. My work needs to be about that. My personal work is a lifestyle choice.”
While staying in a cabin off the grid in Northern California, Cromwell was captivated by the way the light reflected off of a mirror above the outdoor sink, changing with each passing hour. “It created a whole way to see the landscape differently. It was almost like this installation that would change all day long.”
“Making images with my mom and Simone is bonding. It’s a very creative experience. It also takes some negotiating — making sure that Simone has had her nap, or that my mom feels comfortable taking her shirt off (maybe she’ll feel more comfortable in an hour) — but it’s a way to spend time together in our busy lives.”
“My mom originally took me to the redwood forest when I was a kid,” Cromwell says. “When you’re around trees that big, it’s hard not to be in awe. Sharing those kinds of feelings with my daughter was special.” This particular fallen tree drew Cromwell in. “There’s something very human about wanting to submit our names into the flesh of a tree in a way to overcome time. It’s a way for people to embed themselves in this larger-than-life tree that’s hundreds of years old. It’s also a very vulgar act.”
“I’m interested in the history of mining in the West and what happens when these old structures are no longer functional. They just sit there and become part of the landscape.”
“Simone calls her ‘oma’ because my brother’s wife is German and they had kids first. So she got the grandma name. She definitely is a doting grandmother.”
“My husband and I did a couple of road trips camping, and for others, we rented a van and slept in it. One thing we would always do was look for natural hot springs. This one was in Colorado. And it’s so soothing for Simone. She goes from being a hyper 2-year-old to very calm and very zen. She gets to experience nature, and that is really special. And to see how it relaxes her. I like how her body fits into the rocks.”
“We went to this desert oasis outside of Death Valley, and I found the drapes on the date trees to protect the fruit felt like the [human] body. They were sagging and worn, and there was a certain care and tenderness to these bags.”
“It struck me, all of a sudden, thinking about sustainability of the land for my daughter’s future. It’s sad that it’s harder to contemplate living in some of these locations. The West is suffering.”
“My mom and I became closer through my daughter. We are both really strong personalities, but with my daughter being born, we have a different goal together,” Cromwell says. “She’s been very supportive of my whole career, from buying me my first camera to never making me feel like I was making a silly choice by wanting to be an artist. And I think she’s still doing that by posing in my images.”
“It was this attempt to insert myself into the landscape,” Cromwell reflects. “I know it’s kind of futile, but I wanted to be in the bush, to find some symbiotic way to exist in this specific landscape.”
This is a rare moment in the series where Cromwell herself appears photographed. But hers is a crucial perspective to the story she’s hoping to tell. “You’re at this peak, and you can see both ways. At one point, you are dependent on your mother, and now, you’re the caretaker. It’s this point where you have a fuller grasp of what life is, or what it could be.”
“They had collected a bunch of rocks in the desert and we were painting them as an activity with Simone. I saw how fascinated she was with them,” Cromwell says. “Simone was putting rocks on my mother’s back, which I think really speaks to carrying the weight of generations. You don’t know whether she’s putting on the rocks or taking them off. There’s a certain gentleness and lovingness to the picture.”
Because of the way they’re oriented, Earthships, often built of dirt and tires, don’t require heating or cooling. Their humid environments allow tropical plants, like bougainvillea, to thrive.
“There was this amazing outdoor shower in the Earthship in California. This one was her idea. I had made her go into some bushes, and she was covered in dirt,” Cromwell says. “I’ve got a very tolerant mother.”
“I was looking at the history of western landscapes and how they had been made by white men on expeditions to colonize the West. I want to broaden the definition of what we think of as traditional landscape, which is the horizon line. I’m interested in landscapes where we can immerse ourselves a little bit more, feel more of a connection to the land, and hopefully, maybe then, [heed] a call to action.”
“I feel like image-making is a ritual. It’s a way to become closer to somebody,” Cromwell said. “I like my personal work to go in a more performative direction. I can have more creativity. It’s very reflective of where I’ve been in my life, where I’m living, what I’m doing. Now, as a mom, and as somebody realizing that my time with my mom is also limited, it’s important that I spend time with both of them now. My work needs to be about that. My personal work is a lifestyle choice.”
While staying in a cabin off the grid in Northern California, Cromwell was captivated by the way the light reflected off of a mirror above the outdoor sink, changing with each passing hour. “It created a whole way to see the landscape differently. It was almost like this installation that would change all day long.”
“Making images with my mom and Simone is bonding. It’s a very creative experience. It also takes some negotiating — making sure that Simone has had her nap, or that my mom feels comfortable taking her shirt off (maybe she’ll feel more comfortable in an hour) — but it’s a way to spend time together in our busy lives.”
“My mom originally took me to the redwood forest when I was a kid,” Cromwell says. “When you’re around trees that big, it’s hard not to be in awe. Sharing those kinds of feelings with my daughter was special.” This particular fallen tree drew Cromwell in. “There’s something very human about wanting to submit our names into the flesh of a tree in a way to overcome time. It’s a way for people to embed themselves in this larger-than-life tree that’s hundreds of years old. It’s also a very vulgar act.”
“I’m interested in the history of mining in the West and what happens when these old structures are no longer functional. They just sit there and become part of the landscape.”
“Simone calls her ‘oma’ because my brother’s wife is German and they had kids first. So she got the grandma name. She definitely is a doting grandmother.”
“My husband and I did a couple of road trips camping, and for others, we rented a van and slept in it. One thing we would always do was look for natural hot springs. This one was in Colorado. And it’s so soothing for Simone. She goes from being a hyper 2-year-old to very calm and very zen. She gets to experience nature, and that is really special. And to see how it relaxes her. I like how her body fits into the rocks.”
“We went to this desert oasis outside of Death Valley, and I found the drapes on the date trees to protect the fruit felt like the [human] body. They were sagging and worn, and there was a certain care and tenderness to these bags.”
“It struck me, all of a sudden, thinking about sustainability of the land for my daughter’s future. It’s sad that it’s harder to contemplate living in some of these locations. The West is suffering.”
“My mom and I became closer through my daughter. We are both really strong personalities, but with my daughter being born, we have a different goal together,” Cromwell says. “She’s been very supportive of my whole career, from buying me my first camera to never making me feel like I was making a silly choice by wanting to be an artist. And I think she’s still doing that by posing in my images.”
“It was this attempt to insert myself into the landscape,” Cromwell reflects. “I know it’s kind of futile, but I wanted to be in the bush, to find some symbiotic way to exist in this specific landscape.”
This is a rare moment in the series where Cromwell herself appears photographed. But hers is a crucial perspective to the story she’s hoping to tell. “You’re at this peak, and you can see both ways. At one point, you are dependent on your mother, and now, you’re the caretaker. It’s this point where you have a fuller grasp of what life is, or what it could be.”
“They had collected a bunch of rocks in the desert and we were painting them as an activity with Simone. I saw how fascinated she was with them,” Cromwell says. “Simone was putting rocks on my mother’s back, which I think really speaks to carrying the weight of generations. You don’t know whether she’s putting on the rocks or taking them off. There’s a certain gentleness and lovingness to the picture.”
Because of the way they’re oriented, Earthships, often built of dirt and tires, don’t require heating or cooling. Their humid environments allow tropical plants, like bougainvillea, to thrive.
“There was this amazing outdoor shower in the Earthship in California. This one was her idea. I had made her go into some bushes, and she was covered in dirt,” Cromwell says. “I’ve got a very tolerant mother.”
