Lily Zhang Imaging

Photographed in the Pacaya Samiria Reserve during a high school field trip, this was one of my first exposures to wildlife photography and scientific fieldwork. We spent a week living on a research vessel, documenting life along the Amazon rainforest.

In the summer of 2018, I took a Photography I course at Wellesley College. It was my first time using a film camera, developing negatives in a darkroom, and making my own black-and-white prints by hand. This photo came from my final project: a series of nine images developed and printed entirely by myself. Without a car, limited English, and still a little shy, I stayed close to town — capturing street scenes and quiet human moments. I can only vaguely recall the darkroom steps now, but the memory remains vivid. It was a meaningful first encounter with analog photography, and it reminded me: I love digital cameras, and I’m happiest photographing the natural world.

On December 23, 2019, I did my first official blackwater dive in Anilao. Many experienced photographers are used to seeing this squid, one of the most common blackwater creatures in the Indo-Pacific. But as a beginner, I was in awe of every detail. When it suddenly swam toward me, I instinctively hit the shutter. My strobes weren’t working that night, so I had to rely on a flashlight and camera adjustments to get enough exposure. I didn’t expect much until I saw the image: a burst of ink frozen mid-water, like a brushstroke in motion. That’s what blackwater diving taught me from the very beginning: expect the unexpected.

Although the pandemic meant attending classes on a flipped day-night schedule, it also gave me the unexpected chance to explore the vast landscapes of northwestern China. This quiet moment unfolded in the deep off-season in November — a rare stillness in one of China’s most surreal landscapes. Known as the “Mirror of the Sky,” the salt lake reflects the world above through a crystallized brine surface. The rising sun paints the lake in shades of orange, emerging through a matrix of wind turbines that stretch across the horizon.

On December 31, 2021, I traveled from Anchorage to Fairbanks via the Parks Highway, navigating between winter storms. The temperature plummeted to -40°C, where Celsius and Fahrenheit converge, and I was enveloped by the majestic peaks of the Denali range. Somewhere along that frozen road, I quietly fell in love with the stillness and vastness of the snow mountains. Not long after I returned, I picked up skiing for the first time.

Photographed in July during my third blackwater dive trip — after earlier dives in the Philippines and Florida — this image captures the ethereal Venus girdle (Cestum veneris), the largest known ctenophore and the only member of its genus. The shimmering cilia of this comb jelly carried clusters of copepods as it drifted silently through the open water. It was also my first time diving in Hawai‘i, and I hope to return one day to explore even more — shipwrecks, sharks, coral reefs, and of course, more blackwater nights.

I grew up by the ocean in Qingdao, but I didn’t know what surfing was, the waves were just part of the scenery. During the pandemic, I discovered surfing, and it became a way to build new ties with my hometown after nearly seven years away. This was the first time I tried surf photography. Taken near noon, the sea shimmered with sunlight, and Mount Laoshan rose quietly in the distance. Outside the frame were high-rises, packed beaches, and the familiar bustle of a Qingdao summer — but through the lens, I saw it all from a new perspective.

After four years in Connecticut, I missed the vivid colors of a true New England fall. When I moved to North Carolina, the Smokies greeted me with a warm welcome — hills ablaze in amber, rust, and gold. I've come to really appreciate the U.S. national park system, which makes it possible to experience landscapes like this so freely and intimately. This photo was taken at sunrise, using the nearby maple leaves as foreground to add depth and texture to the misty, layered ridge lines beyond.

After four years, I finally returned to Anilao, and this trip turned out to be my most productive blackwater dives yet. Among countless species, this tiny baby octopus — no larger than a fingernail — was one of my favorite encounters.
Photographed with a 105mm macro lens, it's the smallest subject I've ever captured. The moment I saw it in focus through my viewfinder, I knew: my blackwater trim and buoyancy control had finally come together. Worth every jellyfish sting!

In March 2025, I paddled the dark, tannin-rich waters of the Coharie River, where Indigenous-led efforts have restored its natural flow after decades of blockage. The river, once choked by storm debris and dams, now moves freely — quiet, winding, and rich with memory. This year, I’ve been thinking more about how different communities relate to the land and water around them. For the Coharie people, the river is more than a landscape; it’s a living thread of history, care, and return.