What separates observation from interpretation? At what point does a landscape stop being a subject and start being a language? And what does it mean to find, within the vast terrain of the American West, not the grand gesture of the vista, but the quiet grammar of light, edge, and form? These are the questions that Zalman Wainhaus seems to be asking, whether consciously or not, every time he uses a camera. At what point does a landscape stop being a subject and start being a language?