In the Studio With Multimedia Artist David McIntyre

INSIDE+OUT Upstate NY is thrilled to present multimedia artist, David McIntyre who has been living in the Hudson Valley for nearly a decade. With a painterly eye and poet’s tongue, David openly shares his ideals and inspiration in sentences dappled with insights and surprising metaphors. His powerful photography speaks of a simultaneous love and heartbreak that defines the complex dynamic between humans, the natural world, and that which is unseen. Through varied artistic styles–his work is haunting, subtly layered, possessing an inherent sacredness and internal movement, all while grounded in fine art over woo-woo. Meanwhile, his images, like his language, are nuanced but not contrived. Instead, through his work and words, he invites a deeper noticing and presence that invokes his daily walks and sensitive insights gleaned in nature.

In collaboration with Richard Hall and Mimi Young, of littlebitcreates, let’s get personal with Hudson Valley artist, David McIntyre. 

INSIDE+OUT: You’re originally from Scotland. How did you end up in the Hudson Valley, and what makes it special for you to live here?

David McIntyre: It’s been a long road home. Since leaving Scotland for London at the age of eighteen, I’ve spent most of my life in big cities. But when we moved Upstate from New York City in 2016, it felt like coming home. The landscape, the streams, and the woods all felt familiar; they reminded me of where I grew up.  But beyond familiarity, there is something special about the Hudson Valley—it has a particular energy that’s hard to describe. It’s a place where you can be immersed in nature but still have access to art, culture, and a creative community. It’s the best of all worlds.

Your work has an ethereal quality to it. Tell us about that and have you always been drawn to documenting nature through photography? 

It makes me happy that you see an ethereal quality in the work. I wouldn’t say I strive for it, but when a piece emerges that carries that quality, it pleases me. So, I recognize it as valuable.

The dictionary defines “ethereal” as otherworldly, light, fragile, and often spiritual. I hesitate to use otherworldly because it suggests that things we can’t see are outside of this world when, in truth, they are very much a part of it. To me, ethereal points to the unseen—the qualities of things that exist beyond our immediate perception, perhaps even beyond knowing.

And aren’t we all searching for the unseen? Steve Earle has a song called “Still Standing” that opens with a line something like: “I’ve spent my whole life chasing things I cannot see / And just when I catch up to them, they slip away from me.” Love, happiness, ideas, thoughts—all of these are unseen, yet they shape everything we do.

Science is, at its core, the pursuit of the unseen—seeking to measure, define, and understand what was once imperceptible. So are philosophy, art, and spirituality—each, in its own way, an attempt to reveal or name what lies just beyond the grasp of immediate experience.

This is why I titled one of the pieces from my latest collection of works, Casting Sticks, “What if the Wind Were a Witch?” It plays with the idea that unseen forces act upon us, whether we acknowledge them or not.

Your arresting art collection, Walking, was inspired by Henry Theroux. Tell us more about that and is this an ongoing body of work?

I was captivated by the opening line of the book Walking, where Thoreau writes, “May I speak a word for Nature?”  That’s exactly what I wanted to do. However, I’m not sure Nature trusts me the way it trusted Henry Thoreau. My aim is to bring people to Nature—or Nature to people—and let them speak to each other independently of me. I don’t want to mediate the conversation.

That’s the power of visual art—it speaks differently to each person. I just set the table, and hopefully, people sit, slow down, and engage. Art doesn’t explain; it suggests. It points, it hints, it offers glimpses. Which is what happens to me when I’m out walking. I see something that stops me mid-thought, and suddenly, I’m in the here + now. As for whether Walking is ongoing? I would say probably. Each body of work moves me forward, asks new questions, and leads me down new paths. But eventually, I always seem to return—changed by these experiences.

Given your deep connection to nature, what specific changes have you observed that you believe are linked to climate change, the spread of invasive species or efforts in land conservation?

These are all pressing issues, and my early work tried to draw attention to these and other problems, but it took me to a dark place, one of loss and hopelessness. Then, somewhere along the way, my confidence in nature was restored. I saw beyond the damage, beyond the destruction, and realized It’s going to be okay—just not in the way we imagine it.

That doesn’t mean we get to relax. If anything, the more one sees the beauty of Nature, the more compelled one is to protect it. It’s a natural response. But the real question is, how do we fix it? Because we certainly can’t trust the people and institutions who got us into this mess to get us out. But I do believe Nature can show us the way.

There is immense knowledge contained within Nature itself—gathered over a billion years of evolution through trial and error, persistence and cooperation, failure and adaptation. This is what birthed life on Earth, turning a barren, lifeless planet into a vast, breathing ecosystem that sustains us, our ancestors, and generations to come.

When the impossibility of it all sank in, it totally changed my perspective on life and art. If we want to find a way forward, we have to remember that we are a part of Nature, not apart from it. And we have to learn to listen. In the meantime, the small things we do—living more harmoniously with Nature—may not be what saves the planet. But maybe they will save our sense of self and our moral center. And maybe that’s where true change begins.

You told us the question you’re most asked is, “How did you do it?” Tell us about your creative process in relation to the landscape: How did you come to “layering” your images and other creative decisions in creating your work?

People seem so intrigued by the layering, and now I’m intrigued by why they’re intrigued! At first, I thought of explaining it using the metaphor of an onion, but peeling an onion just gives you more onion. So I thought of a Palmito—heart of palms. You peel away the layers to get to the tender, edible core. Maybe that’s the key—people instinctively know that reality itself is layered, and the deeper you go, the more satisfying it is.

On a practical level, my process is one of trial and error. I keep looking, questioning, refining—an evolution in itself. There’s no grand plan, just an ongoing search. I build up layers; add, subtract, distill—until something clicks. The key is trusting that an image will emerge and that a path will reveal itself.

You know, when you get deep into the woods, where there are no trails, at first it feels like you’re lost, then you perhaps notice deer paths, faint at first—they’re thinner and less defined than the human equivalents, but if you follow them, you’ll find your way out. This metaphor is wonderful; all the answers are in the woods. My ancient ancestors in Scotland believed that trees, rivers, and rocks were the keepers of nature’s collective memory. What is that if not knowledge? Perhaps layering my images is my way of uncovering those memories—revealing what has been waiting to be seen.

You’re a photographer, filmmaker and photojournalist– do you have a favorite medium and how has your work evolved over the years?

In the end, they’re all just tools—different ways to take an idea and give it form, to turn something immaterial into something material. Art gives substance and structure to things that previously existed only in the mind.

When I built Step into Stillness (featured photo), an outdoor installation in the Greenport Conservation Area, I remember smiling to myself because it felt like the culmination of all my knowledge up to that point in time.  I was using carpentry skills I learned in high school, drafting skills from working in an architect’s office before studying photography, and, of course, photography and video. Each skill was learned for different reasons—some out of passion, some because they were part of a job—but in the end, nothing is wasted. The artist uses everything they have, and if we don’t have it, we learn it.

So, I don’t have a favorite medium. I’m just grateful for what I know and for the fact that today, it’s easier than ever to acquire new skills. Right now, I’m primarily working with photography and digital tools, but I don’t feel restricted by that. The work determines the medium, not the other way around.

What is a typical day like in the woods or post-shoot in your studio? Both, if that is apropos.

There are times when I’ll walk for twenty minutes without seeing a thing because my mind is occupied—problems and worries. T.S. Eliot called this “being distracted by the distractions of distraction.” But when I’m focused and present, my eyes seem to be constantly attracted to something new—maybe the way the light filters through trees, the shape of a branch, or the color of a leaf. It’s endless, and I’m certainly grateful for the economy of a digital camera. Also, it’s quite liberating to not be actively looking for an individually great shot. Sometimes, they happen, but my intent is simply to see and feel and be part of it all, to lose myself in the landscape.

These days, I’m often accompanied by our husky, Elsa. I love the way she experiences the world. It’s all about sensory-loading—scent, sound, and all the traces left behind. Lately, when she stops to investigate something, I stop, too. I look, listen, touch, and smell, although I probably won’t go as far as tasting the way she does!  But that act of pausing, of engaging the senses, has become part of my process. Instead of just walking, I’ve started standing. It’s a whole new experience—try it! Stand in the woods for several minutes without moving; I promise it will change the way you see everything.

Tell us your thoughts about the art scene in the Hudson Valley. What makes it special?

The Hudson Valley art scene is mature, current, and relevant. Hudson alone has 28 galleries, and there’s a real sense of creative community. I love bumping into artists, grabbing a drink, and talking about projects. Within 20 minutes from where we live, there’s Art Omi, The School, and The Campus at the decommissioned Claverack School, all showing world-class art. Plus, the roots of the Hudson River School are everywhere. It’s a place where history and contemporary art intersect in exciting ways.

There are so many wonderful galleries and spaces popping up in the Hudson Valley. What are some of your favorite places to explore the art scene and local artists? 

I don’t want to get myself in trouble by playing favorites, but as I’ve mentioned, Hudson has so many great galleries and institutions, and Catskill has an amazing gallery scene, including Gallery 495. I loved ArtPort in Kingston, which has recently closed, but I’m excited to see what their new space, Art Yard, will bring. Newburgh and Poughkeepsie have a lot of energy—there are a lot of young artists there, local and edgy!  If I had more time to look at art rather than make it, there would be no shortage of opportunities.

If you could manifest one thing for your businesses or your creative projects in the year ahead, what would it be?

I feel like we’re living in an era of apathy and cynicism, where my art is both my voice and my presence in the world. But I’m torn between using it to further my personal ambitions and using it to speak out against the destruction of the natural world—not to mention the suffering of marginalized people, particularly the cruel scapegoating of trans people.

Can I hold both positions at once? I try. I hope my work stands in quiet opposition to an administration that seeks to strip both people and the land of dignity while also promoting the transformational power of nature. Holding grief, anger, and frustration in one hand and awe and reverence in the other—perhaps that’s why we have two hands. Refusing to look away from suffering while still maintaining the will to create.

I have to believe that this, too, is a form of resistance—one rooted in kindness and love, which, when you look at history, is the only thing that has ever truly changed the world for the better.

What is missing in the area that you wish we had?

Hudson’s got a lot, but more live music would be awesome.

Local Love: What places do you most frequent? What local business should we know about? 

It turns out I know an awful lot about the drinking spots in Hudson and beyond! In Hudson, I love The Hereafter and The Governor’s Tavern (great veggie burger). The Spotty Dog combines two loves—books and beer. The newest place, Saint Florian, is lovely and unique because it’s open seven days a week, and The Half Moon has live music and amazing pizza.

In Catskill, Hemlock is a favorite. In Poughkeepsie, I like Goodnight Kenny and Sorry, Charlie in Kingston. In Newburgh, The Wherehouse has been around forever but somehow still stays cool. Plenty of places to quench a thirst!

Who or what inspires you personally?

The easy answer—John Bonham’s drumming, Martha Graham’s choreography, Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 or Étant donnés. But the real question is: Why do these things inspire me? What happens when we feel inspiration? Where do ideas come from?

Exploring these questions sits at the heart of my practice, and my starting point is an old Gaelic word: Awen. Often translated as “inspiration” or alternatively to mean “spirit within,” Awen also describes the force that gives life to all living things. There’s no real equivalent in English or most European languages—unless you count the fictional Star Wars universe.

But Awen is more than inspiration—it’s the original creative impulse, the first cause. You can see it spiritually, in different religious traditions, or scientifically—it’s the force that caused the first cell to divide and every cell since, a force that compels life to multiply. It’s the energy that brings two things together to create a third that drives collaboration, evolution, and transformation. It’s what moves through the artist when they approach the blank canvas, believing something will emerge. That belief is Awen. And we can’t control it. We can’t grasp it. We can’t even fully know it. But we can trust it, we have to trust it.

It’s not a word every artist needs to know, but it’s certainly something Bonham and Graham tapped into. What I love about them is the primal immediacy of their work—the near-invisible space between inspiration and execution. Bonham never overthinks a groove; Graham doesn’t over-rationalize a movement. There is something raw and immediate in their expression—Awen set free.

Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 taps into the same essence. Close your eyes, and you can imagine someone walking down the stairs. But try to freeze-frame that motion in your mind—it’s nearly impossible. Our brains process movement at 60 frames per second—each step exists as fluid motion, not as a single still image. Duchamp captures this fluidity, layering moments upon moments—not depicting a body in motion, but the experience of motion itself.

And perhaps that’s what I’m doing when I layer images in my Walking series. The result isn’t a single frozen moment but a composite of time and perception. What is lost in realism is gained in something more essential, more reflective of how we experience the world.

This ties into Derrida’s concept of trace. Between a word and the thing it refers to, there is always a gap. The word bread is not the loaf itself. You can say bread, but you can’t taste the word. Something is always lost in translation and representation. The same applies to photography—a photograph of a bird is not the bird itself.

But something is also added. The viewer brings something of themselves to the image—their associations, their history, their inner landscape. So the question becomes: How do we minimize this loss? How do we create work that retains the immediacy, the primal essence, and the direct transmission of Awen?

I think this is why some works of art move us beyond words in ways that explanation never can. There is a kind of purity in work that minimizes the layers of removal and allows inspiration to pass through unimpeded. And perhaps this is the paradox at the heart of my practice. I seek to understand—to trace the origins of meaning, language, and perception. And yet, in the end, I must submit to the process—to Awen, to the force that moves through all creation—knowing that the best work happens when I stop trying to control it.

So, what inspires me? The real answer is Awen. The unseen force that moves through all things. The energy that turns one cell into two, compels a dancer to move, a drummer to strike the snare, and an artist to raise their brush or camera.

I am inspired by the possibility of touching something primal—of capturing a moment, a rhythm, a breath, and passing it on.

What is your current state of mind?

Highs and lows in equal measure. Trying to stay present and have a smile on my face.

Photos by David McIntyre

Follow + Connect with David McIntyre via Website | Instagram

Click HERE to see all of our exclusive interviews with the amazing folks who proudly call the Hudson Valley home.

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See more of our IN THE STUDIO WITH… Artist Series:

In the Studio with Experiential Artist Amanda Russo Rubman

In the Studio with Bespoke Ceramicist R.A. Pesce

In the Studio with Artist Elizabeth Keithline

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About littlebitcreates

Richard Hall and Mimi Young are the creative forces behind littlebitcreates. They produce a variety of projects, including in-depth artist profiles, event-specific promotional videos, and music videos. Their approach is exciting, innovative, and contemporary. In addition to their client work, Hall and Young collaborate with other creatives to create multidimensional, neo-surreal videos as part of a noncommercial venture. littlebitcreates emerged from the extensive knowledge Hall and Young gained over 30 years of experience in photo shoots and multimedia art. They exclusively shoot all of their videos on iPhones, appreciating the distinctive aesthetic it produces and the comfort it offers their subjects in front of the camera.

Follow + Connect with littlebitcreates via Website | Vimeo | @littlebitcreates