How Mark McLennan Captured a Vanishing Gesture and the Unseen Workers Behind It
(This is the story behind the photograph—a glimpse into the moment, the process, and the vision that brought it to life.)
The most powerful portraits don’t need to show a face.
In West Texas, Mark McLennan photographed oil field workers who didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t hide what the job had done to them. One image, a hand covered in oil, says more than a full-length portrait ever could. It shows the weight of the work, the isolation, and the human cost of an industry most people never think about.
After finishing No Fences, Mark wasn’t done with the American West.
He wanted to go deeper, to photograph something harder and less romantic. The towns around the rigs were dusty and silent, the people cautious, the land marked by fire and steel. Over six months, he returned again and again, looking for moments that felt honest. What he found was a quiet gesture. A single hand. And it held everything he was trying to say.
A Gesture Before Disappearance
Photograph and reflections by Mark McLennan
After completing No Fences, Mark wasn’t ready to let go of the American West. He was living in Austin, Texas, and the story felt unfinished. This time, he turned his lens toward a different kind of frontier: the vast oil fields of West Texas.
Getting access wasn’t easy. For months, every attempt to reach out was met with silence or rejection. Then, unexpectedly, a small drilling company agreed to let him in.
“For months, every time I tried I was denied. But finally after a random cold call, a small drilling company was interested in having me out.”
From then on, Mark began making regular trips out to the rigs and the towns that surround them. The Permian Basin, a place rich in oil, heat, and silence, was unlike anywhere he had worked before. It didn’t offer romantic vistas or nostalgic charm. Instead, it revealed something starker, more stripped down.
“The environment surrounding the oil fields is hostile. You can smell the gas in the air at all times, and at night the horizon is lit up by hundreds of flares. Mechanical noises hum and clash relentlessly, and there is little conventional beauty.”
Photographing the workers presented another challenge. Most didn’t want their picture taken. With long shifts and tough conditions, they rarely had time or interest for a camera.
“Guys on the rigs were not always interested in having their photo taken, and few of them wanted to stop what they were doing, so I had to take most of the portraits during the shift change at around 6 pm.”
But every so often, a moment opened up. One evening, as Mark was packing up, a young worker stepped into view with his hand and arm completely covered in oil base.
“Just as I was packing up, one of the younger guys came around the trailers into the parking lot covered in oil base and was happy to be photographed, so long as I didn’t show his face.”
The resulting photograph is haunting in its simplicity. A single hand, drenched in black oil, reaches upward. The skin below is marked and raw. Against a pale limestone background, the contrast is sharp and almost abstract. Yet the image holds emotional weight.
“To me, the picture stands out, because many of the guys did not want to be photographed. But they were all marked by the relentless work on the rigs. Everyone had a story, and few ever thought they would do any other work. This stood out as being emblematic.”
The shot wasn’t planned. Mark had already run out of sheet film and was shooting handheld. But something about the image stayed with him.
“This one reminded me of a favourite album cover and stood out over the rest.”
True to his style, Mark kept the process simple. No flash, no extra gear, just one lens and the patience to wait.
“Like all my work to date, I limit things to the bare minimum. I like a single lens and to make as few technical choices as possible. I find the limitations force me to make better choices.”
This photograph became a centerpiece of his new work. At first, he thought he was documenting physical labor, its toll on bodies and land. But over time, the meaning changed.
“Now, it feels much more about loneliness and what remains unsaid in places that are largely kept out of sight and out of mind.”
The image doesn’t show a face. It doesn’t need to. That arm, suspended in oil and silence, represents something bigger: the people who keep the system running but are rarely seen.
“The oil fields literally power the world, but the individuals who work out there are largely invisible. It’s not just that they are rarely photographed, it’s that the whole system treats them as overlooked. This picture is therefore not a person, but a gesture before disappearance.”
For Mark, the shot also carries a lesson about photography, restraint, and trust in small details.
“I tend to favour images that suggest more than they reveal. To me, this isolated shot suggests more than some of the sweeping landscapes or weathered faces than I am normally drawn to.”
A year later, the photo still speaks. About distance, about labor, about being forgotten. But also, about a moment shared between two people, quiet and true.
