Revelations
As we wrap up our last full day on Rapa Nui, I find myself thinking again about what it might be like to live here. It would be a simple life—one free of the material trappings of American society. Maybe one more balanced—the environment, humans, and animals co-existing comfortably. Respectfully.
Maybe that’s also something this workshop has taught me. When we’re learning, we’re all a little equalized. My classmates may have all kinds of fancy equipment, but in photography, none of that really matters—at least not to me. What you see in a photograph, and how it’s felt, is what matters. The rest is just hardware. In that sense, we’re all the same—students chasing light, trying to capture what moves us.
There’s a lot we can control when creating a photo, but as we’ve learned again and again here on Rapa Nui, there’s even more we cannot. The weather, the tides, the clouds. Both a second sunrise shoot and an eagerly anticipated astrophotography session didn’t go as planned thanks to Mother Nature. Yet both ended up producing incredible results—because we waited. We stayed open to what might reveal itself. To the beauty in the unexpected.
It made me wonder how many moments I’ve rushed past instead of waiting for them to unfold.
It reminded me of developing film in a darkroom—the image slowly surfacing from nothingness in the tray beneath red light. Out here, we waited in the same way, watching the sky decide what it wanted to reveal.
The Second Sunrise
The second sunrise shoot brought extremes of unpredictability: wind, rain, and giant waves crashing against the rocky shore. We set out again before dawn, driving the same dark, lunar-like roads. At Ahu Akahanga, our headlamps bobbing in the semi-darkness, we picked our way across slick rocks, trying to get close enough to the water to find the right spot. There, we balanced our tripods on uneven stones, cameras wrapped in covers (another first), and waited for the sky’s next surprise.
The air was thick with salt, the wind carrying the smell of rain and seaweed as waves pounded the rocks below. It was the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.
The elements had their own plans. Rain, wind, ocean spray—each one a new obstacle. Water spots on lenses. Dripping sleeves. Fingers gone stiff from cold. The challenge became a test of patience and adaptability: constantly wiping lenses, adjusting angles, protecting gear, and keeping focus while everything around us moved. But in the end, the sky broke into brilliant blues, pinks, and golds. Waves exploded against the dark rocks, flinging white spray into the air like applause. Sunlight spilled across the shore, the calmer pools of water shimmering with the sky’s reflection.
Night with the Moai
And then there was the night shoot. Astrophotography. We arrived at Ahu Tongariki in utter darkness, headlamps cutting thin beams through the black. The field that had felt open and familiar by day now seemed endless—and a little eerie. The kind of silence that hums.
As we walked to set up, I turned my light toward the ground to check my footing and caught glimpses of what shared the darkness with us: insects, shapes moving in the grass. Cockroaches. Gah. So I stopped looking down.
We began setting up our tripods, finding our places in the vast field. Our instructor drifted between us, checking settings and offering calm encouragement. The sound was almost deafening in its stillness—a soft wind, the distant crash of waves, and that hollow kind of silence that hums in your ears when the world holds its breath. Out of the darkness, a white dog appeared, weaving curiously between us as if keeping watch.
We used a technique called light painting to illuminate the Moai in the darkness—experimenting with the timing again and again, trying to find that perfect balance of light against darkness—long enough to bring the Moai to life. Each frame was an act of patience, trial, and wonder. But again, the weather had its own plans—clouds hid the stars and made a star-trail impossible. Instead of giving up, our instructor led us to the other side of the statues to see what the sky might reveal there.
That’s when it happened. The clouds thinned. The stars appeared—thousands of them—scattered in the dark like sequins. The Milky Way stretched across the sky above, faint and silver. The sound of the waves behind us mixed with the shutter clicks, and the headlights of our van—of all things—lit the Moai just enough to give them form. It was breathtaking, as if the spirits themselves had decided to reward us for waiting.
Popa—model, athlete, warrior, boy. Rapa Nui (Easter Island), Chile
Portrait of a Warrior
Our final challenge: portrait photography.
Our subject was Popa, our guide, dressed in Rapa Nui ceremonial paint and attire. The task—direct him through poses, gestures, expressions—felt part portrait session, part story-seeking. I didn’t think of it as directing a model so much as helping him reveal the strength and history within him.
Our instructor reminded us that the best portraits are about the eyes—catching that flicker of light that reveals something true. Some of the best moments came when Popa wasn’t posing at all: as another guide painted designs on his face; when he clutched a towel for warmth, eyes closed against the cold; when laughter broke out from something one of us said. Those were the moments he appeared most himself.
He seemed older than his 18 years. There was a confidence in the way he stood—centuries of lineage, even if he was still figuring out his own story. During our nightly photo review, it struck me how many versions of him existed in the room—model, athlete, warrior, boy. Each frame a different truth, each one revealing something new.
The Thorns and the Light
As we drove back, I noticed the coral trees—those flashes of orange-red among the green—dotting the landscape like sparks of fire. One of my classmates had told me earlier that their beauty hides thorns sharp enough to draw blood.
Maybe that’s true of us too. Upon closer inspection, what do we reveal? The perfectly imperfect parts, or the thorns that keep us from growing? What beauty do we hide behind our defenses?
As the sun set on my time here on Rapa Nui, I found myself wondering what the rest of this journey—in the workshop, in Chile, in life—will reveal next.
Maybe the only way to see clearly is to wait for the light.
If you enjoyed this story from Rapa Nui, follow my journey through Chile and beyond on Instagram @odiseabyemmy. See more of my travel photography at emmy-photography.com.