Paul Nicklen: Whistler, Wild Paths, and the Artist’s Journey

The following is a guest post from WWSG exclusive thought leader, Paul Nicklen.

I am sitting here in the quiet after the storm, reflecting on the energy of the past few days in Whistler with Mountain Galleries: the conversations, the faces, the sense of connection as Cristina and I shared our work with all of you. Standing in front of hundreds of people who share a love for this planet was a humbling experience. It reminded me why I do this work in the first place, but it also brought up a question I have for you: what would change in your life if you stopped waiting for permission and started trusting your own voice?

I ask because one theme that emerged over the weekend was the idea that my career followed a clear path from photojournalist to artist. In reality, though, the art came first. For me, photography has always been about expression and emotion, rather than documentation. As a kid, I watched my mother develop images in a darkroom on Baffin Island, fascinated by how a frozen landscape could take on depth and meaning simply by introducing it through light. When I picked up a camera years later, I was drawn to the feeling an image could evoke above everything else. More than anything, I have always wanted the world to fall as deeply in love with nature as I am, and photography is my key to achieving this.

That is probably why, after finally joining National Geographic as an assignment photographer, I had a bit of a rocky start. After each assignment, I would return with images such as a grizzly’s claws carving through water like brushstrokes, or droplets dripping from its fur—shots that blurred the lines between art and journalism.

At first, some editors were not quite sure what to make of my more creative approach to the assignments. But we quickly found a rhythm: we led with the big, emotional, artistic shots, and I learned to capture the journalistic images—the point pictures—that built out the story. I figured out how to deliver what was needed, and I never stopped chasing the shot that went a little further. My time with the magazine gave me the chance to hone my craft and appreciate the power of the printed image—the power of art.

Years later, many of those raw, emotional moments in the wild—the ones that became lead images for articles—are now hanging in galleries and museums. These kinds of scenes are incredibly hard to come across and even harder to capture, which is part of the reason why I release my prints in limited editions. A polar bear on thinning ice, a grizzly vanishing into the first snowfall of the season. These scenes hold the urgency of a world that is changing, and each image carries the weight of that reality.

For collectors, I am proud that the value of my prints has steadily increased over time, in some cases appreciating tenfold. Even as the stock market takes another nosedive, art remains steady—aging well, appreciating quietly, and never demanding a bailout. As fewer editions remain and the message behind the images grows more urgent, their value only deepens.

I have never taken this, or the power of art, lightly. At the heart of my work, I will always be that young kid who fell head over heels for the first polar bear he ever saw. I will never give up my obsession with sharing that love as an artist—and encouraging the world to finally, finally take the protection of our living planet seriously. Art and photography have always been how I stay close to the wild—and how I invite others to fall in love with it, too.

So thank you. For listening, for caring, and for being part of all this. None of it means anything without people like you who look at these images and see them for the story that lies beneath. To those who joined me in Whistler, it was a pleasure to connect and share such a lively and meaningful weekend together.

With gratitude,