Kim Van Liefferinge
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Sep 26
- 4 min read
Kim Van Liefferinge approaches photography with the eye of an archaeologist, looking for what lies beneath the surface of landscapes and histories. Her series “Through the Fog” follows the tule elk of Point Reyes, documenting the years they were fenced in to make way for cattle ranching and the recent shift toward restoring their land. The images carry a quiet weight, showing the elk partly absorbed by fog and grass, inseparable from their environment. For Kim, photography is both witness and intervention, a way to reveal hidden narratives in ecosystems and to ask what responsibility we have toward them.
Q: You studied archaeology before turning to photography. How does that background shape the way you look at the world through a camera?
A: Photography and archaeology developed in tandem for me. During excavations in Greece, I was often behind the camera documenting artifacts and stratigraphy, and photographing the surrounding landscapes with their own deep histories felt like a natural extension. Before long, I carried my camera with me everywhere. That dual practice gave me both a technical foundation and a way of seeing: archaeology teaches you to look beneath the surface, to read layers of time. I carry that same instinct into photography, searching for hidden narratives in landscapes and ecosystems.
In the end, I realized that while I loved archaeological research, the academic path wasn’t the right fit. Photography—always a parallel passion—became the space where I could bring those instincts forward: curiosity, research, storytelling. In many ways, each photograph feels like an excavation of its own, revealing both the surface and what lies beneath.
Q: In "Through the Fog" you follow the tule elk at Point Reyes. What made you want to tell that story?
A: It actually began by chance. While living in the San Francisco Bay Area, I visited Point Reyes on a day trip and first saw the tule elk roaming the headlands.
Only later, when I began researching their history, did I discover something troubling: the herd had been confined to a small section of the seashore by the National Park Service, largely to prevent competition with local cattle for food and water. That confinement proved deadly—during the 2020 drought, more than 150 elk, nearly a third of the herd, died of thirst. With climate change, such losses are bound to repeat.
Their situation, along with broader environmental concerns in the park, was the subject of a long-running lawsuit that was still unfolding when I returned with my camera. For me, the tule elk’s story reflects something central to my practice: giving presence to voices that can’t speak for themselves. Whether animals, ecosystems, or landscapes, my work seeks to draw attention to the fragile balance between human activity and the non-human world—and to ask viewers what is truly at stake.
Q: The work carries both activism and quiet observation. How do you hold those two together in one project?
A: Activism can be loud, urgent, uncompromising—and it often needs to be. But in art, I find quiet can sometimes speak just as strongly.
I see my role as one of a witness—reporting, not disturbing, which is especially important since I’m often dealing with environmental topics.
You can see this in the way I used my camera. I could have gone closer or relied on a stronger telephoto lens to make the elk stand out more dramatically, but I chose not to. In the series, they appear on the horizon, half-absorbed by grasses and fog, because for me they are inseparable from their home landscape. They emerge quietly, almost imperceptibly, reminding us how fragile the line is between their presence and disappearance.
Q: Surfaces and textures seem important in your images. What details usually catch your eye?
A: Yes, I’m drawn to textures and surfaces because they allow me to show a subject’s multi-layered story. From certain angles, textures emerge—the bend of tall grass in the wind, the shifting gradients of sky, the shimmer of elk fur—that you might miss with the naked eye. From an archaeological perspective, these details become like strata of meaning, fragments of a larger narrative.
I’m also fascinated by surfaces that obscure rather than reveal.
In "Through the Fog," the fog itself wasn’t just atmosphere—it became a metaphor. It spoke to the risk of loss and to the idea that we never see the whole picture. The elk’s presence behind that veil reminded me that their story, like any history, can only ever be partially known.
Q: You describe photography as an intervention. What do you want people to notice differently after seeing your work?
A: This is where the activist side of my work comes in. Photography is an intervention because it allows me to interrupt a surface-level gaze during an afternoon hike and communicate the elk’s story to a wider audience. At Point Reyes, it’s easy to admire the tule elk as majestic silhouettes on the horizon, but I want people to look deeper. A creature, a landscape, an ecosystem is never static; it is alive, vulnerable, and far too often damaged or destroyed by human interference.
What I hope viewers notice differently is that fragility. Awe is a beautiful experience, but it has to be paired with awareness of what you’re in awe of. If the images spark someone to question what lies behind the view, to recognize the pressures the environment is under—and perhaps even to take action—then the work has done its job as an intervention.
Q: "Through the Fog" closes with the elk returning to open land. How did being there for that moment affect you?
A: When I took the images, the lawsuit was still unresolved, and my focus was on documenting the elk within their native land to highlight their mistreatment. When the settlement came in January 2025, the work took on a different meaning. It felt like a real victory for the tule elk and the wider Point Reyes ecosystem: the fence came down, and many of the dairy and cattle operations leasing parkland will be phased out. That’s a genuine step toward conservation. But standing there also underscored how much harm has already been done—and how long recovery will take. So for me, that moment carried both joy and urgency: a reminder that the land can heal, but only if we’re committed to better stewardship going forward.
