Photos: An SF art student unearths the world’s largest living organism

The Wide Shot celebrates the work of Bay Area photographers, showcasing their latest projects and the behind-the-scenes stories of how they got the shots.

When Jonah Reenders set out to photograph the largest living organism in the world — the so-called Armillaria ostoyae, or “humongous fungus” — he was presented with a problem. How do you photograph a being that dwells deep underground, visible only when unearthed in small segments?

Unfolding Reenders’s fourfold photo book transports you to the weird world of Malheur National Forest in eastern Oregon. Here, pickup trucks hang suspended from trees and bug-eyed trophies mount walls. Underground, the Armillaria ostoyae stretches its network of mycelial filaments for three miles — an ancient giant linking opposite ends of the forest ecosystem.

Reenders recently completed Armillaria for his MFA thesis at the California College of the Arts in San Francisco. Before entering photography, he worked as a field biologist for almost a decade after graduating with a B.S. in environmental science at Central Michigan University. He is currently a fellow at the Headlands Center for the Arts in the ​​Marin Headlands.

Here, he answers our questions about his project and its inspirations.

The Armillaria ostoyae, or humongous fungus, is the largest living organism in the world. The “Genet D” individual, found in the Malheur National Forest, is estimated to be over 10,000 years old and covers three square miles. 

I visited the fungi and brought back a piece of its mycelium that I have been growing, documenting, and investigating. 

This work is encapsulated in a handmade book with the living Armillaria ostoyae individual in the center. The photographs reflect the puzzling and uncertain existence of the fungi with explorations into the psychic landscape and human-ecological relationships.

The back pages of the book display taxonomic imagery of fungal specimens with text investigating queer ecology, poetry, and the mycelial network layered in between.

With a background in field biology, my work centers around ecological themes. I’m always looking for unexplored parts of nature that allow for new ways of understanding or interpreting through art. I first learned about the Armillaria ostoyae in a mycology course in Northern Michigan, where another large Armillaria individual grows. After researching fungi for my undergrad thesis, I was drawn back to them while developing my MFA thesis at California College of the Arts (CCA). Once you become interested in fungi, they seem to implant themselves in you. 

The mycelial network connects countless organisms within an ecosystem, enabling it to function as a unified whole — sharing resources and even “communicating” through fungal pathways. These symbiotic relationships can serve as a metaphor for humanity, allowing us to contemplate what it means to be an individual versus operating as a greater whole. Though we often see ourselves as separate, humans are as much a part of nature as any other species. Even in cities, we remain embedded in these systems. The more we understand these relationships, the clearer it becomes that our survival depends on healthy ecosystems. 

There’s an image of Michael McWilliams, the biologist who has spent much of his life studying the Armillaria ostoyae, lying in the area where it lives. I wanted to take his portrait with it, but knew that was going to be hard since it’s underground and mostly invisible. I asked him if he would lay down on the grass. He looked so at ease, and I could feel his connection to the ancient organism. 

Another is the black-and-white image of the floating truck in the tree. Most of the images in this project were taken near the Armillaria ostoyae in Oregon, but I also worked in other regions where the species grows. On a trip to the Lost Coast, someone at a convenience store told me to check out the “truck in a tree.” They told me a local doctor had hoisted the truck into the tree with his kids so patients could find his home. 

Much of the work in this project plays with allegory, and the truck felt like a symbol of the tension between humanity and the ecosystems we inhabit.

Before visiting the Armillaria, I wanted to connect with someone who had studied it in the field. But, getting in contact with the biologists or researchers is often the most challenging part. I found Michael McWilliams’ name on a few Armillaria research papers and sent some unsuccessful emails. I eventually called his former employer, who told me he’d retired, but she connected us and he was generous enough to drive me to the site. 

I brought back a sample of the mycelium and was able to isolate and grow it on an agar plate. It was a bit surreal, an organism over 10,000 years old sitting in my studio. I knew I wanted to incorporate this living mycelium in the project. I photographed its growth daily, but the images didn’t capture the impact of seeing it in person.

It wasn’t until I started working on the book and got the idea of putting the plate in the center that it came together. I liked how the images formed a loose narrative, with the living mycelium becoming part of the story.

Sequencing the images was also challenging. Because the pages don’t function left to right, I wanted to find relationships between all of the images and create a narrative without being too direct. The pages are also front and back, so I had to figure out how the main images worked with the mushroom sample images and text on the backside.

At first, I wasn’t sure a book that folded out in four directions was even possible, but I felt it had to be in that format to function as a sculptural piece for my thesis show. I wanted the pages to feel like they were growing outward, mimicking how mycelium spreads. I built a dummy from sticky notes and cardboard, and it seemed doable. I scanned all the film, sequenced the images, and printed each sheet double-sided. Then, after folding the pages and binding the book, I made the central wood block, and installed an agar plate with the living mycelium. 

The cover is a photogram of a spore print made in the darkroom. For this I had to leave a mushroom on a glass plate and wait for it to drop its spores, then bring the glass into the darkroom and expose it to paper. 

I was grateful to be at CCA during this entire process, where artists like Nelson Chan, Aspen Mays, and Race Dillon, all pivotal to this project, work in the photobook format.