Ladee's Travels

Whimsical & Wacky: Returning to ASU Gammage with Ten New Adventures in Art

2026-10-26T04:00:00.000-07:00

Whimsical & Wacky: Returning to ASU Gammage with Ten New Adventures in Art

There is something particularly exciting about receiving the invitation to participate in an art exhibition at a place where creativity is already celebrated. ASU Gammage is one of those places. Known for bringing extraordinary theatrical productions to Arizona, it also provides an opportunity for visual artists to share their work with audiences who may have come for a Broadway performance but discover something unexpected along the way.

I am delighted to be participating in the art at Gammage again, this time with a submittal of a collection of ten pieces created around the theme Whimsical & Wacky. The title alone was enough to get my imagination moving. It suggested a world where ordinary rules could be suspended, where humor could coexist with beauty, and where the impossible might suddenly seem perfectly reasonable.

But what makes this opportunity especially meaningful is the encouragement I have received. The interest in my work and the willingness to encourage my continued participation mean a great deal to me. Artists spend considerable time working independently, experimenting with ideas, questioning decisions, and wondering whether what they have created will resonate with others. Having people who recognize that creative effort and encourage further exploration is both reassuring and motivating.

When an Exhibition Theme Opens the Door

The Whimsical & Wacky theme immediately appealed to my sense of curiosity. I have always enjoyed discovering unusual perspectives, particularly through photography and travel. I might photograph a beautiful village in France, an architectural detail in Italy, or an unexpected street scene, but I often find myself wondering what else that image could become.

What if the buildings floated above the streets? What if fish swam through the sky instead of the water? What if the people in a photograph were suddenly dwarfed by an enormous fashionably dressed woman?

These questions became the foundation for my new collection.

Rather than creating ten variations of the same subject, I wanted ten individual stories that shared a common artistic language. Each piece needed to stand on its own while contributing to a larger celebration of imagination, humor, and visual surprise.

I also wanted viewers to experience that wonderful moment when they first recognize something familiar, then notice that something is delightfully wrong.

Ten Pieces, Ten Impossible Worlds

The collection begins with The Village That Forgot Gravity, a charming European village where houses and islands float above the landscape. Staircases lead toward impossible destinations, and everyday village life continues as though nothing unusual has happened.

In Tea Time for the Impossible, an enormous teacup becomes a swimming pool, complete with miniature vacationers floating on sugar cubes. I love the idea of taking something as ordinary as afternoon tea and turning it into an elaborate holiday destination.

Time Took the Afternoon Off explores another familiar subject. Clocks melt, float, and bend through a village where time has apparently decided it has better things to do. Perhaps we could all benefit from an afternoon when the clock stops controlling our activities.

Then there is The Unusual Commuter, featuring an elegantly dressed giraffe riding a tiny bicycle through a French village. The giraffe seems perfectly comfortable with the arrangement, even if the surrounding pedestrians are somewhat bewildered.

Behind Door Number Seven invites viewers into a collection of mysterious doorways, each revealing an entirely different world. I particularly enjoy the suggestion that adventure might be waiting just beyond an ordinary-looking entrance.

In When Fish Learned to Fly, enormous tropical fish move through the skies above Venice while gondolas travel along the canals below. Venice is already such an extraordinary place that adding flying fish somehow seems almost believable.

Music becomes the subject of The Orchestra That Played Itself, where instruments perform without musicians, notes become butterflies, and a grand piano develops wings. Considering that this collection will be displayed in a performing arts venue, I especially enjoy including a piece celebrating music in such an unconventional way.

Too Fabulous for This Town brings a little fashion-inspired absurdity to Paris. An extravagantly dressed woman towers over the city, turning its streets and architecture into accessories for her own spectacular appearance.

The Library of Escaping Stories celebrates another passion of mine: reading. Books release entire worlds into the air while a reader remains quietly absorbed in her own story. It is a visual reminder of how much adventure can exist between the covers of a book.

Finally, The Desert After Dark brings the collection home to Arizona. Beneath a glowing moon, dancing saguaros and elegantly dressed jackrabbits gather for an improbable desert celebration.

Each composition has its own personality, but together they invite viewers into a world where imagination is the only requirement for admission. These views are small, I know, but I am hoping to encourage you to see the selected 24"x36" originals that hang at Gammage (show dates at the bottom of this post). And if you are interested in something other than a print, say....a mug, or notebook, shirt, and other fun stuff, these will be available here at my store once the Gammage exhibition starts.

Exploring a Different Artistic Approach

One of the most enjoyable parts of developing this collection has been experimenting with its visual presentation. My artistic interests have long included photography, digital composition, and the possibilities of transforming recognizable images into something more imaginative.

For these pieces, I wanted the richness and expressive character of oil painting. Saturated colors, visible brushwork, textured surfaces, and irregular, ragged edges help give the artwork a painterly quality.

I particularly like the contrast between realistic architectural details and completely impossible situations. The more believable the setting, the more amusing the unexpected elements become.

I also wanted each composition to reward a second look. A viewer might initially notice a giraffe on a bicycle, then discover a formally dressed rabbit or a cat observing the commotion. Those smaller discoveries are part of the enjoyment.

The ten works are designed in a 24-by-36-inch portrait format, giving the compositions enough vertical space for exaggerated perspectives, towering characters, and fantastical landscapes.

The Importance of Encouragement

Returning to ASU Gammage also reminds me how important encouragement can be in an artist’s development.

I am especially appreciative of the support and encouragement from friends and family. The positive response has inspired me to continue experimenting, developing new ideas, and pushing beyond approaches that already feel comfortable.

Creative work involves a certain amount of vulnerability. When you share something you have made, you are also sharing a little of the way you see the world. Not everyone will interpret it the same way, and that is part of what makes art interesting.

Encouragement doesn’t eliminate the uncertainty, but it makes the process more rewarding. It reminds me that artistic growth comes from continuing to create, remaining curious, and being willing to try something different.

I am grateful to have another opportunity to share my work in a setting that values artistic expression.

Art, Theater, and the Unexpected Connection

There is something especially appropriate about displaying whimsical artwork at Gammage during a season featuring productions such as The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and Beetlejuice. Both theatrical worlds demonstrate how imagination, exaggerated characters, unusual environments, and humor can create memorable experiences.

Theater asks audiences to suspend disbelief. So does surrealistic art.

For a few moments, we willingly accept things that could never happen in ordinary life. We become participants in an imaginative world created by someone else.

That connection between performing and visual arts is one of the things I appreciate about exhibiting at Gammage. Someone may arrive anticipating an evening of music and theater, then encounter an artwork that makes them stop, smile, or look a little closer.

Perhaps they will recognize a familiar European street. Perhaps they will wonder why a giraffe is riding a bicycle. Perhaps one of the impossible scenes will remind them of a childhood fantasy or a place they have visited.

I don’t necessarily want everyone to interpret the work in the same way. I would rather they bring their own experiences and imagination to it.

Looking Forward to Sharing the Collection

As I prepare the ten pieces for submission, I find myself feeling the same excitement that originally drew me toward photography and art: the pleasure of creating something that didn’t exist before. I can’t wait to see which piece is selected.

There is also the anticipation of seeing the artwork outside my own workspace, displayed where other people can experience it. An image that feels familiar after hours of working on it can become entirely different when viewed in a gallery setting.

I look forward to the installation, the reception, and the opportunity to see how visitors respond.

Most of all, I am grateful for the chance to return to ASU Gammage. With Whimsical & Wacky, I am giving myself permission to be playful, experimental, and perhaps a little ridiculous.

After all, art doesn’t always need to be serious to have value. Sometimes it can simply invite us to escape the ordinary, enjoy the unexpected, and remember how much fun imagination can be.

And if a giraffe wants to ride a bicycle through a French village, who am I to stop it?

Plan Your Visit

The exhibit is paired with both of ASU Gammage’s upcoming productions:

Dr. Seuss’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas!: Tickets and performance dates are available through the official ASU Gammage ticket page: https://www\.asugammage\.com/events/dr\-seuss\-how\-grinch\-stole\-christmas
Beetlejuice: Tickets and performance dates are available through the official ASU Gammage ticket page: https://www\.asugammage\.com/events/beetlejuice

November 23 reception - Free (pay for parking using the app so that you don't get a ticket). The receptions normally start at 6:00 PM and run for an hour.

When Abstract Art Becomes Personal: An Evening That Rekindled My Desire to Paint

2026-10-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

Photo credit: ASU Gammage program

An unexpected lesson in artistic freedom, creative courage, and the possibility of returning to the canvas.

Recently, I wrote a blog post asking a question that has intrigued me for years: When does abstract become art?

I explored artistic intention, the role of the viewer, the influence of museums and galleries, and whether a painting needs to communicate something recognizable to have meaning.

I approached the question from the perspective of both an artist and an observer. I wanted to understand why some abstract works move us deeply while others leave us wondering what, exactly, we are supposed to be looking at.

Then, tonight, something happened that made the question much more personal.

I went as Gary’s guest to ASU Gammage to hear Australian artist and former stand-up comedian Sam Kissajukian present his extraordinary story of becoming a painter.

See Gammage Program

I expected an interesting evening about art.

I didn’t expect to leave wondering whether it was time to take my paints out again.

An Artist Who Didn’t Ask Permission

Sam’s journey into painting was anything but conventional.

After ten years as a stand-up comedian, he walked away from a profession in which he had become successful at giving audiences what they wanted, but increasingly disconnected from what he wanted to express. He found himself living and working in a former cake factory in Sydney, with little formal artistic training and virtually no experience painting.

And then he decided to become an artist.

There was something wonderfully liberating about that decision. He didn’t wait to master perspective, composition, color theory, or the rules of contemporary art. He didn’t begin by asking what galleries might accept or what collectors might purchase.

He simply began creating.

His first paintings were unconventional, sometimes absurd, often enormous, and filled with the kind of visual imagination that doesn’t seem particularly interested in obeying anyone else’s rules.

I found myself thinking about how often artists do precisely the opposite.

We learn techniques. We develop styles. We become proficient with particular tools. We begin to understand what works, what sells, what galleries accept, and what audiences appreciate.

And somewhere along the way, those things can become boundaries. Not necessarily bad boundaries. Technical knowledge and discipline are valuable. But what happens when proficiency becomes predictability?

What happens when we stop experimenting because we already know how to produce something that works?

The Freedom to Make Something That Doesn’t Make Sense

One of the most entertaining aspects of Sam’s presentation was his willingness to take an idea far beyond what most people would consider reasonable. When someone suggested that his paintings were too large, he created tiny versions. Then he built elaborate miniature environments around them.

When he became interested in framing, he began exploring whether the frame itself could become more important than the artwork. He imagined museums that defied conventional architecture, paintings that existed within other paintings, and artistic experiences that deliberately challenged the expectations of the viewer. Some ideas were ingenious. Others were impractical. Some were hilariously unsuccessful.

But I was fascinated by the underlying question.

Why must an artistic idea be practical before it deserves to be explored?

In my own work, I have become very comfortable with digital techniques. Photography, Photoshop, layering, compositing, and digital manipulation allow me to create images that would have been extremely difficult to produce through traditional methods.

I enjoy that process enormously.

But digital art also offers a tremendous amount of control. I can undo an action. Change a color. Remove an element. Reposition an object. Save multiple versions. Return to an earlier composition. I can keep adjusting an image until it satisfies me.

Standing in front of Sam’s paintings afterward, I began thinking about the very different relationship an artist has with physical materials. Paint moves. Colors mix unexpectedly. A brushstroke cannot always be taken back. Texture develops through the physical interaction between the artist and the surface. Sometimes the materials contribute something that the artist never planned.

And perhaps I have been missing that.

The Artist’s Internal World

Sam’s presentation was also a deeply personal account of living with bipolar disorder. He described a six-month period of extraordinary artistic productivity that coincided with a prolonged manic episode, followed by a devastating depression. He spoke openly about the consequences, the relationships affected, and his eventual diagnosis and treatment.

What impressed me was not the idea that mental illness produces great art. That would be a simplistic and potentially dangerous interpretation of his experience. Rather, it was his determination to understand his own creative process and find a way to continue making art from a more stable place.

During the discussion afterward, he explained that he can now draw upon memories of different emotional states without needing to experience their extremes. That distinction stayed with me. Art can come from joy, grief, curiosity, frustration, imagination, or a quiet moment of observation. It doesn’t require suffering.

But it does offer us a way to communicate things that ordinary language sometimes cannot adequately express. I thought about my earlier blog post and the question of whether the viewer completes the artwork. Sam offered another dimension to that idea.

Perhaps the artist begins by trying to make something internal visible. The viewer then brings an entirely different collection of memories and experiences to the encounter. The result is not necessarily a shared interpretation.

It is a conversation between two different internal worlds.

When the Paintings Became More Than the Story

After the presentation, we moved into the lobby, where Sam had exhibited a collection of his paintings. This was an important part of the evening for me. Listening to someone describe their artistic journey is one experience. Standing in front of the actual work is another.

The paintings were large, expressive, colorful, and wonderfully unconventional. They didn’t all share the same visual style, yet there was something unmistakably personal connecting them. Sam had described a similar experience at one of his early exhibitions. Visitors saw paintings that were remarkably different from one another, but somehow recognized that they came from the same person.

I found that idea especially compelling. Artists are often encouraged to develop a recognizable style, a consistent body of work, something that identifies them immediately. I understand why. Consistency helps establish an artistic identity.

But perhaps identity doesn’t have to mean repetition. Perhaps an artist’s identity can exist in the curiosity, imagination, and choices behind the work, even when the visual results are dramatically different.

That possibility is exciting. It suggests that changing direction doesn’t necessarily mean abandoning what came before. It may simply mean discovering another part of ourselves.

A Conversation That Made It Personal

I was fortunate to have an opportunity to speak with Sam after the presentation. Gary was also part of the evening’s conversations, and it was especially interesting to hear about the practical experience of installing Sam’s large paintings in the Gammage exhibition space.

There was something delightful about the contrast between the practical realities of hanging artwork and Sam’s seemingly boundless imagination.

Where would another painting fit? Could one more piece be added? How could the space accommodate work of such scale?

These are familiar questions to anyone who has prepared artwork for an exhibition.

I have certainly faced them myself.

During our conversation, I mentioned my own artwork and my experience working digitally. We talked about the possibilities of painting and the creative choices that different media offer. What mattered most to me was not any particular technical suggestion. It was the encouragement I felt to experiment again.

I found myself talking about taking out my canvases and returning to painting.

It was a thought that had been quietly waiting in the background, but suddenly it felt much more immediate.

I didn’t leave with a new artistic formula.

I left wanting to make something.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts one artist can give another.

Digital Art Isn’t the End of the Journey

I don’t see this as a rejection of digital art.

Quite the opposite.

My digital work has expanded my artistic vocabulary. It has taught me to see possibilities in photographs, to combine imagery, to experiment with abstraction, and to transform familiar subjects into something new.

I have learned an enormous amount from working with Photoshop and digital composition.

But perhaps I have begun treating the digital image as the finished destination rather than one stage of a larger creative process.

What would happen if I printed one of my digital compositions onto canvas and began painting over it?

What if I allowed acrylic paint to change the image rather than simply embellish it?

What if I stopped trying to preserve the original composition and allowed the painting to evolve into something completely different?

And what if I began with a blank canvas, without a photograph or digital design to guide me?

Those questions excite me.

They also make me a little uncomfortable.

Which may be an excellent reason to explore them.

Returning to My Original Question

So, when does abstract become art?

After this evening, I’m less interested in finding a definitive answer. I still believe artistic intention matters. I still think craftsmanship, composition, context, and the viewer’s experience all contribute to how we understand a work. But I am beginning to think that my original question may have been too focused on the finished object.

Perhaps I should also have been asking:

What happens to the artist during the act of creating?

What discoveries emerge when we allow ourselves to work without knowing exactly where we are going?

How much of our artistic identity is shaped by genuine curiosity, and how much by the expectations we have gradually accepted?

And when was the last time we made something simply to find out what might happen?

Sam’s story was extraordinary, sometimes hilarious, and at times deeply unsettling. His artistic journey is his own, and I have no desire to reproduce it. But I came away with an appreciation for his willingness to explore ideas without requiring them to fit neatly into an established artistic category. He reminded me that artistic growth doesn’t always come from perfecting what we already know.

Sometimes it comes from doing something unfamiliar.

Sometimes it comes from allowing a little uncertainty back into the process.

And sometimes it comes from remembering that we are allowed to change.

Perhaps It’s Time to Get Paint on My Hands Again

I went to ASU Gammage as Gary’s guest, expecting to enjoy an artist’s presentation and see some interesting paintings.

I came home thinking about my own studio.

About canvases.

About brushes.

About acrylic paint and texture and the possibility of making something that cannot be undone with a keyboard shortcut.

I don’t know whether my next artistic direction will be painting, digital mixed media, or some combination I haven’t yet imagined.

And for once, I’m quite comfortable not knowing.

My earlier blog post asked when abstract becomes art.

Tonight gave me another question.

What might happen if I stopped worrying quite so much about what the finished artwork should be, and simply allowed myself to create?

I think I would like to find out.

Art, AI, and Etsy: Rethinking My Creative Business Before the Next Chapter

2026-10-22T07:38:45.922-07:00

Series title: The Artist, the Algorithm, and the Marketplace

When technology changes the rules of creativity, artists have to reconsider not only how they create, but how they share their work with the world.

I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about bringing my Etsy shop back to life. For the past couple of years, my Etsy presence has been sitting quietly on the back burner while I’ve focused on photography, developing new artwork, participating in exhibitions, traveling, and exploring different creative techniques.

But lately, I’ve been feeling that familiar entrepreneurial excitement again. I’ve been developing new collections, preparing artwork for exhibitions, and considering how to make more of my work available beyond the gallery walls. It seems like the right time to revisit the business side of being an artist.

My plan was beginning to take shape. Then, this morning, an email from Etsy arrived in my inbox.

The subject? Changes to Etsy’s policies concerning artificial intelligence.

And suddenly, I realized that before reopening my virtual storefront, I had some homework to do.

My Vision for Returning to Etsy

My original plan is relatively straightforward, although there are several layers to it.

I want Etsy to become the primary marketplace for my signed and numbered fine art prints. These would be carefully selected pieces from my photography and digital artwork collections, produced with attention to print quality, presentation, authenticity, and limited-edition availability.

For me, signed and numbered artwork represents something different from an ordinary reproduction. There’s a personal connection between the artist and the collector. The signature represents my involvement, while the edition number establishes where a particular print belongs within a defined release.

I like the idea of controlling those editions myself, determining how many prints will be available, documenting their production, and personally handling the final presentation.

Etsy seemed like a natural fit.

It offers access to buyers far beyond my local Phoenix art community while allowing me to retain a more personal relationship with collectors. Someone discovering my artwork in another state—or another country—could potentially purchase a signed print directly from me.

That opportunity is particularly appealing as I continue participating in exhibitions around Arizona.

But I also recognize that not everyone wants to purchase a limited-edition fine art print.

Two Marketplaces, Two Different Experiences

That’s where my existing Pixels.com account comes into the picture.

I’ve envisioned a complementary relationship between the two platforms.

Etsy would focus on signed and numbered artwork, carefully controlled editions, and the collector experience. Pixels.com would offer a broader selection of reproductions and merchandise featuring my images.

Someone who loves a particular photograph might want it as a small wall print rather than a large, signed edition. Another person might prefer the image on a coffee mug, notebook, or another everyday product.

Both customers appreciate the artwork, but they’re looking for different experiences.

My intention is to maintain a clear distinction between these offerings, using Etsy for the personal, hands-on side of my art business and directing customers interested in other formats to my Ladee-Rickard.pixels.com storefront through appropriate, policy-compliant channels.

I still need to examine Etsy’s rules concerning external links and transactions before implementing that part of the plan.

The concept is to give people choices without compromising the value of the signed editions.

I had been looking forward to developing this process, organizing my collections, preparing listings, and establishing a consistent release schedule.

Then came Etsy’s announcement.

An Email That Changes the Conversation

Etsy’s message emphasized something that initially sounded encouraging: artificial intelligence should support creativity and craftsmanship rather than replace them.

The company also emphasized that buyers should understand the role artists and sellers play in creating the items they purchase.

I agree with both principles.

However, the email introduced several policy changes that deserve closer examination.

One particularly significant requirement involves listing photographs. According to the announcement, listings must include at least one unedited photograph of the actual item against a real background, with certain exceptions depending on the product.

For an artist selling photographic or digitally developed artwork, this raises practical questions.

Would photographing a finished, signed print on my worktable satisfy the requirement? How should the print be presented when its original artwork was developed digitally? What about mockups that show how a piece might look framed in a living room?

These are questions I want to answer before creating new listings.

The announcement also described restrictions on AI-generated listings, including prohibitions involving automated listings and AI-generated functional guides such as patterns, recipes, and instructions.

Etsy is also developing tools to identify misleading images and fraudulent listings, along with a reporting option for members concerned about potentially misleading AI imagery.

These changes reflect a much larger conversation taking place throughout the creative community.

And it’s a conversation I find fascinating.

Where Does the Artist End and the Technology Begin?

My creative process has never been limited to pressing a camera shutter.

Photography is often my starting point, but it isn’t always my destination.

I enjoy experimenting with Photoshop, digital painting techniques, textures, compositing, and other methods that transform an original photograph into something more interpretive.

Sometimes I’m pursuing photorealism. Other times I’m interested in painterly effects, unusual combinations of imagery, or compositions that would be difficult to capture in a single photograph.

More recently, artificial intelligence has become another tool worth exploring within that creative process.

I don’t view all these approaches as interchangeable. Taking a photograph, painting an image, digitally compositing multiple photographs, and generating visual elements with AI involve different processes and different degrees of artistic intervention.

But each can raise questions about authorship, originality, and disclosure.

Where does technology support an artist’s vision, and where does it begin to replace the artist’s contribution?

How much transformation makes an image something new?

Does the answer depend on the tools used, the decisions made, or the final result?

And perhaps most importantly for someone selling artwork: what should the buyer know about how an image was created?

These aren’t entirely new questions. Photography itself once challenged traditional ideas about artistic craftsmanship. Digital editing brought another wave of debate.

AI has simply made the discussion more urgent.

Transparency Without Diminishing Creativity

One of the things I appreciate about Etsy’s stated direction is its emphasis on transparency.

I believe collectors deserve accurate information about what they’re purchasing.

If a print is signed and numbered, buyers should understand the edition size, the printing method, and what makes that particular release distinct.

Likewise, if AI-assisted elements are part of the creative process, there should be a thoughtful and accurate way to communicate that involvement.

But I also think it’s important to distinguish between different types of AI use.

Using technology to refine an image isn’t necessarily the same as generating an entire composition from a text prompt. Nor is either process automatically equivalent to creating a physical painting or capturing an original photograph.

Those distinctions matter to artists, collectors, and marketplaces.

The challenge is determining how Etsy’s updated policies recognize them.

I don’t want to make assumptions about what is permitted simply because a particular technique seems reasonable to me. Nor do I want to unnecessarily eliminate creative methods before understanding the actual rules.

For now, the appropriate response is research.

A Slight Detour Before Launching

So my Etsy relaunch isn’t canceled. It’s simply entering a more deliberate planning stage.

Before publishing new listings, I want to review the complete policies, understand the requirements for AI-assisted artwork, and establish a process that accurately represents each piece.

That includes examining listing photography, product descriptions, edition documentation, disclosure requirements, and the relationship between my Etsy and Pixels.com storefronts.

I’ll also need to consider whether different collections require different approaches.

Some artwork begins as original photography. Other pieces involve extensive digital manipulation. Still others explore more experimental creative processes.

Rather than treating everything as one category, I may need to develop a classification system that reflects how each work was created.

That could ultimately become a valuable part of my art business, independent of Etsy’s requirements.

The Beginning of a Larger Conversation

This post isn’t intended to provide definitive answers about Etsy’s new policies. I’ve only just received the announcement, and I haven’t completed the research necessary to interpret how the rules apply to my particular work.

Instead, consider this the beginning of an ongoing conversation.

Over the coming weeks, I plan to examine Etsy’s published policies more closely, compare them with my current artistic workflow, and explore what the changes mean for photographers, digital artists, and creators who incorporate AI into their work.

I’ll share what I discover, the questions that remain unanswered, and the decisions I make as I prepare to reopen my shop.

There may be some adjustments to my original business model. There may even be opportunities I hadn’t considered.

After all, creativity isn’t limited to making artwork. Sometimes it involves finding new ways to bring that artwork into the world.

And while the tools, marketplaces, and rules continue to evolve, one thing remains constant for me:

I want the artwork I release to reflect my creative vision, my personal involvement, and the relationship I hope to build with the people who collect it.

That’s the foundation I want for this next chapter.

The research begins now.

This is the first article in an ongoing exploration of Etsy’s evolving AI policies, artistic authorship, and the practical business decisions involved in selling original photography and digitally developed fine art.

Future posts will examine Etsy’s official policy language, the distinction between AI-assisted and AI-generated artwork, requirements for listing images, and the process of preparing signed and numbered editions for sale.

When Sleeping Beauties Become Songs: David Byrne, Gary Beckert, and the Music That Waited

2026-10-21T16:14:59.981-07:00

Some ideas are forgotten. Others are simply waiting for someone to finish the story.

Sometimes two seemingly unrelated experiences come together at precisely the right moment. This week, those experiences are reading David Byrne’s Sleeping Beauties: Why Good Ideas Go Dormant and How They Wake Up and looking forward to Gary Beckert’s release celebration for his album, Songs in the Key of J.

At first glance, one is a book exploring why important ideas disappear from public attention, while the other is a musician celebrating the release of his music. But knowing the story behind Gary’s album, I began to see a connection that is both intellectually fascinating and deeply human.

The music Gary is releasing began with his band partner, Jay. Their creative journey was interrupted when Jay passed away, leaving behind work that had never been completed. Rather than allowing those ideas to remain unfinished, Gary gathered the material, completed the lyrics, composed music, and performed the songs.

What began as one musician’s creative vision has become another musician’s commitment to bringing that vision into the world.

And suddenly, David Byrne’s sleeping beauties seemed like a particularly appropriate way to understand what Gary has accomplished.

Why Good Ideas Go Dormant

David Byrne, best known to many of us as the creative force behind Talking Heads, examines an intriguing phenomenon in Sleeping Beauties. Throughout history, extraordinary ideas have sometimes gone unnoticed, misunderstood, or forgotten, only to emerge years or even centuries later and profoundly influence the world.

We like to believe that good ideas naturally attract attention. That great music will find listeners, exceptional artwork will be appreciated, and important discoveries will be recognized simply because they deserve recognition.

But history demonstrates that creative value and public recognition do not always arrive together.

Sometimes an idea appears before the world is ready for it. Sometimes it lacks the resources or advocates necessary to develop. And sometimes circumstances interrupt the creative process before the work can be completed.

It is this last possibility that makes Gary and Jay’s story so compelling.

Jay’s unfinished material did not necessarily lack recognition or appreciation. It lacked the opportunity to reach completion. His passing interrupted a creative journey, leaving behind ideas that still contained possibilities.

Gary recognized those possibilities.

And rather than allowing the work to remain dormant, he chose to continue it.

The Three Stages of a Sleeping Beauty

One passage in Byrne’s book particularly captured my attention. Researchers studying overlooked scientific publications describe sleeping beauties through three characteristics: the depth of sleep, the length of sleep, and the intensity of awakening.

Although these concepts were developed to study scientific research, they provide an interesting framework for thinking about creative work.

The Depth of Sleep: When Creativity Becomes Silent

In scientific research, the depth of sleep describes how completely an idea disappears from attention.

For Jay’s unfinished songs, the silence was something different. The creative process had been interrupted by loss. Musical ideas existed, but they had not yet become the finished works that listeners could experience.

There is something especially poignant about unfinished creative work left behind after someone dies. A few lines of lyrics, a musical phrase, a handwritten note, or an incomplete composition can contain the beginnings of something extraordinary.

Yet without someone willing and able to continue the process, those possibilities may remain unrealized.

Gary faced the challenge of recognizing what Jay had begun and imagining how it might be completed.

That required more than preserving the material. It required becoming an active participant in its creation.

The Length of Sleep: The Time Between Inspiration and Completion

The second characteristic is the length of sleep, or how long an idea remains dormant.

I don’t yet know exactly how long Jay’s material waited before Gary began developing it into completed songs. That is one of the questions I hope to explore when I hear more about the album.

But I find the concept fascinating.

Creative ideas do not necessarily lose their value with the passage of time. Sometimes time changes the way we understand them. A lyric written years earlier may acquire a different emotional meaning after the experiences of loss, remembrance, and reflection.

For Gary, returning to Jay’s work meant encountering ideas that originated in another moment of their musical relationship.

The passage of time may have influenced how he interpreted those ideas, but the essential creative connection remained.

The Awakening Intensity: When the Music Finally Finds Its Voice

The third characteristic is awakening intensity, the moment when a previously overlooked idea begins attracting attention and influence.

For Jay’s unfinished material, the awakening is happening through Gary’s efforts to complete and release the music.

Gary gathered the work, finished the lyrics, wrote the music, and performed the songs. Each of those steps transformed the original ideas into something listeners can now experience.

The album release represents a particularly important milestone because the music is no longer confined to the creative process. It has entered the world.

The release celebrations on Long Island and now in the Tempe area introduce the songs to audiences who can develop their own relationships with them.

Whether the album eventually reaches hundreds or thousands of listeners is almost secondary to what has already occurred.

The unfinished work has become music.

And that music now has a life beyond the circumstances in which it began.

The Difference Between Rediscovery and Resurrection

There is an important distinction between Byrne’s sleeping beauties and the story behind Songs in the Key of J.

In Byrne’s examples, the work often already exists in a completed form. What changes is the world’s recognition of its significance.

Jay’s material presents a different situation.

The creative work was unfinished. Its awakening required another artist to participate in its development.

Gary was not simply rediscovering forgotten recordings or introducing old songs to a new audience. He was helping create the finished songs from material Jay had left behind.

That distinction makes this story particularly interesting to me.

It raises questions about the relationship between inspiration and completion. Where does one artist’s creative contribution end and another’s begin? How does someone honor the original vision while introducing their own artistic voice?

There may be no simple answers.

But perhaps the beauty of collaboration is that creative ideas do not always belong exclusively to the moment in which they originate.

They can evolve through relationships, shared experiences, and the willingness of another person to carry them forward.

Jay provided the beginnings. Gary helped bring those beginnings into their completed musical form.

The resulting album reflects a creative connection that extends beyond the time the two musicians were able to work together.

The Importance of a Creative Champion

One of Byrne’s most interesting observations concerns the people who help dormant ideas become recognized.

Throughout history, important discoveries have sometimes depended on someone who recognized their potential and brought them to the attention of others.

These advocates might be scientists, historians, collectors, publishers, or individuals who simply believed that something deserved another opportunity.

In the story of Songs in the Key of J, Gary serves a related but more personal role.

He is both an advocate for Jay’s unfinished ideas and a creative contributor to their realization.

It would have been possible for the material to remain in storage, remembered privately by those who knew Jay. Instead, Gary invested the time, energy, and artistic commitment necessary to transform it into a finished album.

That decision deserves appreciation.

Anyone who has attempted to complete another person’s creative work understands that it involves both responsibility and interpretation. Preserving the spirit of the original ideas while producing something artistically complete requires sensitivity.

Gary’s work represents a continuation of a musical partnership, even though the circumstances of that partnership have changed.

And perhaps that is one of the most moving aspects of this story.

The collaboration did not simply disappear when Jay passed away. Through the unfinished material and Gary’s continued work, it found another form.

What This Means to Me as an Artist

As a photographer and visual artist, I find this story particularly meaningful.

My own creative process often involves returning to photographs, sketches, and ideas that have been waiting for the right moment.

I may capture an image during a trip and leave it untouched for months or even years. Then, while exploring a new Photoshop technique or developing a painterly interpretation, I suddenly recognize possibilities that were not apparent when I first took the photograph.

The original idea has not necessarily changed. My ability to interpret it has.

In that sense, I have my own collection of sleeping beauties.

But Gary’s experience introduces another dimension to the concept.

What happens when an artist leaves behind unfinished work? What responsibility, if any, do others have to preserve it? And what creative possibilities emerge when someone else is willing to continue the process?

These are questions that extend far beyond music.

They apply to painting, photography, literature, architecture, and almost every form of creative expression.

We often think of artistic creation as an individual accomplishment. Yet many important works are shaped by collaboration, mentorship, influence, and the contributions of people whose names may not receive equal recognition.

Gary and Jay’s story reminds me that creative work can also become a bridge between people, experiences, and generations.

The Audience Becomes Part of the Awakening

Over the past several weeks, I have been writing about my experiences at local music venues, paying particular attention to the relationship between musicians, audiences, and the environments in which performances take place.

I have become increasingly interested in the ways live music creates connections that recorded music cannot entirely reproduce.

When we attend a performance, we bring our own experiences, expectations, and memories into the room.

A song about loss may resonate differently with someone who has experienced grief. A lyric about friendship may remind another listener of someone they have known for decades.

The songwriter begins the creative process, but the audience contributes something through its interpretation.

That is what I find so compelling about the upcoming release celebration.

Jay’s original ideas, developed and completed through Gary’s musicianship, will now become part of other people’s experiences.

Listeners who never knew Jay may nevertheless connect with something he began.

They may never fully understand the circumstances surrounding the songs, but they can appreciate the finished music.

And those who knew Jay may hear something entirely different: a reminder of a friend, a musical partner, or a shared history.

The same song can carry different meanings for different people.

Perhaps that is one of the remarkable things about art. Once it enters the world, it continues developing through the people who encounter it.

A Different Kind of Musical Legacy

There is a temptation to describe this album simply as a tribute to Jay.

And certainly, completing work that a friend and musical partner left unfinished can be understood as an act of remembrance.

But I think the story deserves a broader interpretation.

A tribute generally looks backward, honoring someone and what they accomplished.

Gary’s project also looks forward.

By completing the lyrics, composing the music, and performing the songs, he has helped transform Jay’s unfinished ideas into new creative experiences.

The album does not merely preserve a memory. It creates opportunities for listeners to encounter music that otherwise might never have existed in its completed form.

That is an important distinction.

The work is simultaneously an expression of remembrance and an act of continuing creativity.

And perhaps that is the most meaningful connection to Byrne’s book.

A sleeping beauty does not awaken simply because someone remembers it.

It awakens because someone recognizes its possibilities and helps bring it into a new context.

Looking Forward to Thursday

As I prepare to attend Gary Beckert’s local release celebration for Songs in the Key of J, I am especially interested in hearing how this project developed.

I want to know more about Jay’s original contributions, how Gary approached the unfinished material, and what the experience of completing the songs meant to him.

I am curious whether certain songs were more difficult to finish than others. Did Gary try to imagine how Jay might have completed them, or did he allow his own musical instincts to guide the process? Were there moments when a lyric or musical phrase suddenly suggested the direction the song should take?

And perhaps most importantly, what does Gary hope listeners will take away from the album?

Those are questions I hope to explore as I listen.

I also want to pay attention to the audience. How will people respond when they hear the songs and understand the story behind them? Will the music create the kind of personal connections that make live performances so memorable?

I suspect this will be more than an ordinary album release experience.

It is an opportunity to witness the next chapter of a creative partnership and to appreciate the commitment required to bring unfinished artistic work into the world.

Some Ideas Are Worth Waking Up

Reading David Byrne’s Sleeping Beauties has encouraged me to think differently about creativity, recognition, and the unpredictable lives of ideas.

Not every important idea is recognized immediately. Not every creative project reaches completion on its original schedule. And not every artist has the opportunity to finish everything they begin.

But unfinished does not necessarily mean without possibility.

Sometimes an idea waits for changing circumstances. Sometimes it waits for a new interpretation. And sometimes it waits for someone who understands its origins well enough to help it find its voice.

Jay began something meaningful. Gary recognized its potential and committed himself to completing it.

Now, through Songs in the Key of J, those musical ideas are finding their way to listeners.

And that brings me back to the thought that first connected these two experiences.

Some sleeping beauties are waiting to be discovered. Others are waiting to be understood. And a few are waiting for someone who cares enough to finish the song.

This Thursday, I am looking forward to hearing what happens when those songs finally awaken.

Performing at Schnepf Farms: When the Music Becomes Part of the Background

2026-10-21T07:38:00.000-07:00

An artist’s perspective on performing outdoors, competing for an audience’s attention, and discovering that not every stage creates the same experience.

There is a significant difference between playing music for an audience and playing music in a place where an audience happens to be. That distinction became particularly clear during a recent conversation about a performance at Schnepf Farms in Queen Creek, Arizona.

I learned about the experience while sitting with my friend, who I will call "Sam" for this discussion. Sam, an experienced musician who performs at a variety of venues, had recently played at Schnepf Farms. As he described the afternoon, I realized that his experience offered another interesting perspective on something I have been exploring in my writing: how the venue itself changes the relationship between the performer and the audience. It was a revealing example of how much more goes into a performance than the time spent onstage.

A Farm Is Not a Concert Hall

Schnepf Farms is a destination where visitors come to enjoy the atmosphere, food, seasonal activities, and family entertainment. Music is one part of that experience, but it isn’t necessarily the reason people are there. And that makes an enormous difference to the performer.

Sam described an outdoor stage positioned near picnic tables, with families moving between activities, children running around, and people enjoying corn, chili, hot dogs, and other refreshments. Some visitors were seated. Others were walking through. Many were focused on eating, talking, or keeping track of their children. The musicians were providing entertainment, but they were competing with everything else happening around them.

I found myself thinking about how different that is from performing in a theater, where the audience has purchased a ticket, taken a seat, and made a conscious decision to listen. At Schnepf Farms, the audience hadn’t necessarily made that commitment. The performer had to earn their attention, often repeatedly.

When the Sound System Works Against You

One of Sam's greatest frustrations was the sound system. He described speakers positioned on either side of the stage, with picnic tables extending back beneath an overhead covering. The problem was simple: there wasn’t enough sound reinforcement to reach the entire audience effectively. Even with the controls turned all the way up, the system couldn’t deliver the volume or clarity he needed.

For a musician, this isn’t merely an inconvenience. Sound affects everything. If the performer can’t hear the proper balance of voice and instrument, it becomes more difficult to judge the performance. If the audience can’t hear clearly, even the most carefully selected song may fail to connect.

Sam compared his approach to adjusting a photograph. A photographer looks at an image and notices whether the lighting is too strong, the colors are unbalanced, or a particular element needs correction. A musician does something similar with sound. Sam often begins with a familiar song, such as “Kansas City,” because he knows how it should sound. That gives him a reference point for evaluating the acoustics and making adjustments.

I particularly appreciated that analogy because it connects two artistic disciplines. Whether working with sound or imagery, the artist is constantly interpreting feedback and making corrections. But there is a limit to what technique can accomplish. A photographer cannot always overcome terrible lighting without additional equipment. A musician cannot make an underpowered sound system deliver more than it is capable of producing. Sometimes the environment establishes limitations that skill alone cannot overcome.

The Audience That Isn’t Really Listening

Perhaps the most revealing part of Sam's experience was his description of the audience. It wasn’t necessarily an unfriendly audience. It was a distracted one.

Families had been walking around the farm, waiting in food lines, and managing children. When they finally found a picnic table, they were ready to sit, eat, and relax. Music was happening nearby, but listening wasn’t necessarily their priority. From the audience’s perspective, that may have been perfectly reasonable. From the performer’s perspective, it was exhausting.

A musician depends on feedback. Applause, eye contact, laughter, singing along, or even a quiet but attentive expression can communicate that a connection is happening. When those signals are missing, the performer has to work harder to maintain energy and confidence.

Sam described the experience as a difficult crowd to engage. And I wondered whether the real problem was the audience at all. Perhaps the setting had simply created different expectations. The visitors were there for a day at the farm. The musicians were there to perform. Those two purposes don’t always align.

Improvisation Becomes a Survival Skill

One of the things I enjoy about watching experienced performers is their ability to respond to unexpected situations. Sam described a moment when a train passed behind the stage while he was singing. Rather than ignoring the interruption, he incorporated it into the song, improvising lyrics about the train. A nearby listener noticed, and the moment became part of the entertainment.

That is something a recording cannot easily reproduce. A live performer can react to the environment, acknowledge the unexpected, and turn an interruption into a connection. But improvisation requires energy and concentration.

Sam also described having a planned list of songs, only to find himself changing his selections as the performance progressed. Between the distractions, the sound problems, and the heat, it became increasingly difficult to maintain the original plan. He had to keep making decisions. Which song would work next? What would capture attention? Should he change the tempo? Would something familiar work better than something more complicated?

The audience sees a musician playing. The musician is simultaneously evaluating dozens of variables.

The Physical Cost of an Outdoor Performance

There is another aspect of outdoor performance that audiences may not appreciate: the physical demands. Sam described a cloudy beginning to the afternoon, followed by the sun emerging partway through his set. The temperature seemed to rise immediately, and performing became considerably more uncomfortable.

There was the heat, the need to stay hydrated, the effort of playing and singing, and the challenge of remaining entertaining despite the conditions. Then there was the time involved. Sam estimated that the actual performance lasted somewhere around forty minutes to an hour, but the commitment extended far beyond that. There was the preparation, the equipment, the drive, the arrival, the performance itself, and the journey home.

And the journey home presented another challenge. As rain approached, Sam found himself searching for his car in a parking area that consisted largely of open fields. He had tried to remember where he parked by using a line of trees as a landmark, but navigating the fields after a tiring performance wasn’t easy.

By the time he finally arrived home, he was exhausted. It was a reminder that a relatively short performance can represent an entire day of physical and mental effort.

Not Every Stage at Schnepf Farms Is the Same

One of the more interesting distinctions in Sam's account was that he had enjoyed performing at Schnepf Farms in a different setting. He described a smaller patio area near the gift shop and food service, where open-mic performances have been held. That environment felt more intimate and comfortable. People could order food, sit nearby, and listen. The physical space made the relationship between performer and audience more natural.

The larger outdoor stage, by contrast, placed the musicians within a much broader recreational environment. The audience was dispersed, the distractions were numerous, and the sound system struggled to bridge the distance.

Same destination, but a different performance environment and a different artistic experience.

That distinction is important because it would be unfair to evaluate the entire venue based on a single stage or event. A space that works beautifully for one type of entertainment may be much less effective for another. A full band might create the energy and sound needed to engage a large outdoor crowd, while a smaller acoustic performance might be better suited to a more intimate setting. The design of the performance space matters just as much as the talent onstage.

What Does a Successful Performance Really Mean?

As Sam talked, I kept returning to a question that interests me across different art forms. How do we measure artistic success? Is a musical performance successful because the musician played well, because the audience applauded, because people stopped to listen, or because the venue provided an enjoyable atmosphere? Or is success measured by the performer’s ability to adapt, improvise, and deliver the best possible experience under difficult circumstances?

I don’t think those questions have identical answers. A musician may perform exceptionally well in an environment that makes meaningful audience engagement almost impossible. Conversely, an enthusiastic audience can transform an imperfect performance into a memorable experience. The relationship between performer, audience, and environment is far more complicated than it appears.

And perhaps that’s what makes live performance so interesting. Unlike a painting hanging on a wall or a recording played through headphones, live music exists in a particular place at a particular moment. The weather matters. The acoustics matter. The audience matters. Even a passing train can become part of the artwork.

Next Time, I’ll Be on the Other Side

I haven’t finished exploring Schnepf Farms. In fact, Sam's experience has made me more curious about it. I plan to attend a performance there as an audience member and observe the experience from the other side.

Will I notice the same sound limitations? Will the music feel like background entertainment, or will it draw me into the performance? Will the setting encourage me to sit and listen, or will I find myself enjoying the larger atmosphere of the farm? And how much will the type of music, the size of the audience, and the particular performance space influence my impression?

Those questions deserve their own article. For now, Sam's account has given me a renewed appreciation for the work that happens beyond the microphone: the adjustments, improvisation, persistence, and professionalism required to keep performing when the environment isn’t cooperating.

A stage provides a place to perform, but it doesn’t necessarily provide an audience that is ready to listen. And sometimes, the greatest artistry lies in finding a way to connect anyway.

Note: artwork by me for a 2026 exhibition at ASU Gammage. See here.

What Could Possibly Go Right? A Question Worth Asking

2026-10-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

Why Danny Meyer’s New Book Deserves a Place on Your Reading List

We spend an extraordinary amount of time thinking about what could go wrong. We anticipate problems, prepare for setbacks, evaluate risks, and develop contingency plans. Whether we’re building a business, pursuing a creative passion, managing a team, or simply navigating life, we’re often encouraged to identify everything that might fail before taking the next step. But what happens when we reverse the question?

What could possibly go right?

That is the intriguing question behind Danny Meyer’s new book, What Could Possibly Go Right?: The Essential Journey to Scale an Enduring Culture. It’s a refreshing change in perspective, and I think it’s a question worth exploring.

Why I Chose This Book

My interest in this book has a personal connection to something I experienced last weekend when I attended 300 Paintings at ASU Gammage. The performance left me thinking about creativity, experimentation, expectations, and what happens when we allow ourselves to explore possibilities without knowing exactly where they will lead.

As an artist, I am particularly interested in the relationship between creative intention and unexpected outcomes. We often begin a project with a vision of what we want to accomplish, but the creative process has a way of introducing possibilities we never anticipated. Sometimes those discoveries become more interesting than the original plan.

My experience at 300 Paintings prompted me to think more deeply about the importance of remaining open to those possibilities. It also made me consider how much of our thinking is shaped by expectations, assumptions, and the desire to control the outcome. What might happen if we approached our creative endeavors, professional challenges, and everyday decisions with a greater willingness to discover what could go right?

That question led me to Danny Meyer’s book. Although his world of hospitality and business may seem far removed from an artistic performance, I see an interesting connection between the two. Both invite us to examine the environments we create, the experiences we share, and the possibilities that emerge when we challenge conventional thinking.

I’ll be exploring my experience at 300 Paintings, along with the ideas and questions it inspired, in a separate blog post that will be published soon. For now, it provides an interesting starting point for why this particular book caught my attention.

The Man Behind the Question

Danny Meyer is no stranger to building something that lasts. As the founder of Union Square Hospitality Group and the entrepreneur behind celebrated hospitality ventures, including Shake Shack, Meyer has spent decades exploring what makes organizations successful. His earlier bestseller, Setting the Table, introduced readers to his philosophy of Enlightened Hospitality, an approach that places people and relationships at the center of business success.

Rather than viewing hospitality simply as excellent customer service, Meyer encouraged leaders to consider how they treat employees, customers, communities, suppliers, and investors. His philosophy suggests that when people feel genuinely valued, extraordinary things become possible. Now, with What Could Possibly Go Right?, Meyer turns his attention toward another challenge: how to grow an organization without losing the culture that made it special in the first place.

Growth Is Easy to Celebrate. Culture Is Harder to Preserve.

We often measure success through numbers. More customers, more revenue, more locations, more employees, and more recognition. But growth can introduce an unexpected problem. The qualities that made a small organization exceptional can become increasingly difficult to maintain as it expands.

Think about a favorite neighborhood restaurant. You return because someone remembers your name, the atmosphere feels welcoming, the employees seem genuinely happy to be there, and the experience feels personal rather than transactional. Then the restaurant becomes successful. A second location opens, followed by a third, and eventually the organization grows beyond the founder’s ability to personally influence every interaction. Can the original experience survive?

That question applies far beyond restaurants. It applies to corporations, nonprofit organizations, artistic communities, educational institutions, and even families. How do we preserve what matters most while allowing something to evolve? This is one of the reasons Meyer’s book interests me.

The Power of Asking a Better Question

The title alone offers a valuable shift in perspective. Most of us are familiar with the phrase, “What could possibly go wrong?” It is usually delivered with skepticism, sometimes with humor, and often as a warning. Meyer challenges us to consider the opposite. What if we approached a new opportunity by imagining the possibilities rather than immediately cataloging the dangers? What if we asked what might succeed, what relationships might develop, what unexpected discoveries might emerge, and what positive consequences might follow?

This isn’t about ignoring risks or pretending that failure doesn’t exist. It’s about recognizing that the questions we ask influence the possibilities we are willing to explore. For entrepreneurs, this might mean pursuing an unconventional idea. For leaders, it might mean trusting employees with greater responsibility. For artists, it might mean experimenting with an unfamiliar medium. For travelers, it might mean taking a different route, entering an unfamiliar neighborhood, or accepting an invitation that wasn’t part of the original itinerary. Some of life’s most rewarding experiences begin with curiosity rather than certainty.

What Artists and Creative Thinkers Can Learn From Hospitality

Although Meyer’s professional background is in restaurants and hospitality, I believe the underlying themes are especially relevant to creative people. An artist develops a recognizable style, technique, or visual language. Over time, that identity becomes part of what collectors and audiences appreciate. But artistic growth requires experimentation. How does an artist evolve without abandoning the qualities that make the work distinctive?

The same tension exists in business. An organization needs to innovate while preserving its essential character. Perhaps the answer isn’t to resist change but to understand which values deserve to remain constant. For an artist, those values might include curiosity, originality, craftsmanship, or the desire to communicate an emotional experience. For a business, they might include generosity, trust, respect, and genuine hospitality. The forms may change, but the underlying philosophy can endure.

Thinking back to 300 Paintings, I find myself returning to the idea that creativity involves a certain willingness to surrender control. An artist may establish the conditions for something to happen, but the result can take on a life of its own. Perhaps successful organizations face a similar challenge. They must establish a foundation strong enough to preserve their values while remaining flexible enough to welcome new ideas and unexpected opportunities.

Culture Is What Happens When Nobody Is Watching

One of the most interesting questions surrounding organizational culture is whether it can truly be created through policies and mission statements. Companies frequently publish impressive declarations about their values, but culture is experienced through everyday behavior. It’s how employees treat one another when the manager isn’t present, how a restaurant responds when an order goes wrong, how an organization handles disagreement, disappointment, or unexpected success, and how people behave when doing the right thing is inconvenient.

A company’s culture isn’t simply what its leadership says it believes. It’s what people consistently experience. That distinction makes the subject of Meyer’s book particularly relevant in an era when organizations are growing, restructuring, automating, and incorporating artificial intelligence into everyday operations. Technology may help a business scale its systems, but preserving its humanity requires a different kind of attention.

Why This Book Belongs on More Than a Business Reading List

I am drawn to books that encourage me to look at familiar ideas from a different perspective. The best books don’t simply provide information. They challenge assumptions and introduce questions that stay with us long after we’ve finished reading. What Could Possibly Go Right? offers an opportunity to think about leadership, organizational growth, relationships, and the importance of building something meaningful enough to endure.

You don’t have to own a restaurant or manage a corporation to appreciate those questions. You might be organizing a community project, developing a creative practice, mentoring someone, or considering a new direction in life. At some point, almost everyone confronts the challenge of moving forward without losing sight of what matters. That makes this book relevant well beyond the world of hospitality.

An Invitation to Read and Reflect

I haven’t reached the final page of this book, so this isn’t a traditional book review. It’s an invitation to explore an idea that I find particularly compelling. As you read, consider what values you would refuse to compromise as something you care about grows. Have you ever watched a successful organization lose the qualities that originally made it special? Can a welcoming, people-centered culture be deliberately developed, or must it emerge naturally? What opportunities have you overlooked because you were too focused on what might go wrong?

I suspect that Meyer’s exploration of enduring culture will inspire conversations about far more than business. It may also encourage us to reconsider how we define success. Perhaps success isn’t simply about becoming bigger, wealthier, or more widely recognized. Perhaps it is about creating something that remains meaningful as it grows, something that continues to reflect our values even as circumstances change.

What I find especially appealing about this book is the possibility of applying its central question to everyday life. We don’t need to be launching a company or planning an ambitious project to benefit from a more optimistic perspective. Sometimes the most important changes begin with a simple willingness to imagine a different outcome. Instead of automatically anticipating disappointment, we might allow ourselves to consider the opportunities waiting on the other side of uncertainty.

My experience at 300 Paintings reminded me that some of the most interesting ideas come from encounters we never expected to influence our thinking. I went to experience a performance and came away with questions that extended into art, business, and personal philosophy. Those questions are part of what makes learning so enjoyable. One experience leads to another, and suddenly a book about organizational culture becomes relevant to a conversation about artistic creativity.

Perhaps the most productive question we can ask before beginning something new isn’t what we stand to lose. It’s what we might discover, create, or accomplish if things go right.

And that, to me, is reason enough to put this book on the reading list.

Recommended Reading: What Could Possibly Go Right?: The Essential Journey to Scale an Enduring Culture, by Danny Meyer.

Coming Soon: My reflections on 300 Paintings at ASU Gammage, an experience that inspired me to think more deeply about creativity, expectations, and the possibilities that emerge when we challenge our assumptions.

Sometimes a book earns a place on our reading list because of the answers it promises. Other times, it’s because of the questions it inspires. For me, this one begins with a particularly good question.

Songs in the Key of Jay: A Musical Story That Continues

2026-10-19T12:31:18.029-07:00

Songs in the Key of Jay: A Musical Story That Continues

An upcoming album release with Gary Beckert, a collection of unfinished songs, and the creative connections that give music a life beyond its beginnings.

There are concerts we attend simply because we enjoy the music. And then there are performances that offer something more—a story about the people who created the music and the circumstances that brought it into existence.

This Thursday, October 22, I’m looking forward to attending Gary Beckert’s Arizona album release celebration at The Chill Room in Tempe. The album, Songs in the Key of Jay, is credited to Spunky & Tadpole, and its story has already captured my curiosity.

According to the event announcement, the album features 15 songs started by Spunky Jay Reilly and completed by Gary Beckert, known as Tadpole. It is described as their first and only album.

That raises some fascinating questions. What happens when one musician takes another musician’s unfinished ideas and helps bring them to completion? How much of the original artist remains in the finished composition? And how does the second musician balance preserving the original vision with contributing something personal?

As a visual artist, I find this especially intriguing. We often think of artwork as the creation of a single individual, yet collaboration can produce something neither artist would have created independently.

Gary is also a builder of acoustic guitars, which adds another layer to my curiosity about his creative process. Making an instrument and making music both involve craftsmanship, patience, experimentation, and an understanding of how individual components contribute to the finished work.

The album has already been celebrated on Long Island. Now Gary is bringing the release to the Arizona music community, with an evening featuring several opening performers before his appearance.

I’m looking forward to hearing the songs, learning more about the collaboration, and discovering the stories behind this unusual musical project.

After Thursday’s performance, I’ll return to this article with my impressions of the music, the atmosphere, and the experience of watching Gary introduce these songs to an Arizona audience.

For now, one question stays with me: When an artist completes another artist’s unfinished work, is the result a continuation of the original vision, a new collaboration, or perhaps a little of both?

When the Music Meets the Dinner Table: An Evening at Pho Cao

2026-10-18T21:20:51.268-07:00

Continuing My Exploration of Live Music Venues

At Pho Cao, the music arrived with the dinner: a small stage, crowded tables, clinking glasses, and musicians performing only a few steps away. The setting made one question impossible to ignore: How much does a venue shape the way we listen?

My visits to Arizona BBQ Shack and the Tempe Center for the Arts lobby had already shown me that live music changes with its surroundings. Some venues are designed around the performance, with carefully planned acoustics, lighting, and seating. Others, like Pho Cao, weave music into an active restaurant, where listening competes with conversation, service, and the rhythms of an ordinary evening.

Tonight, I added Pho Cao to that comparison—and found that where you sit may matter almost as much as what is being played.

A Table Ten Feet From the Stage

I went with Kim, and Gary joined us, along with someone new we met that evening. Other locals added to the neighborhood atmosphere.

We sat directly in front of the stage, perhaps ten feet from the musicians. In a traditional concert hall, that might be one of the most desirable seats in the house. But in a restaurant, being that close creates a different experience.

We were surrounded by dinner plates, drinking glasses, conversations, and servers moving between tables. The musicians performed just a few steps away while the restaurant continued operating around us. There was no separation between dining and listening; both happened simultaneously.

That is the charm—and the challenge—of a venue like Pho Cao.

The Performers: Emma and James, and the Wild Banshees

Emma and James performed first, hosted by the Wild Banshees.

The stage was small and intimate, with the musicians positioned close together under colorful lighting. From our table, we could watch their expressions, movements, and interactions—details that often disappear in larger venues.

I could see the physical effort of playing, the communication between musicians, and the subtle gestures that held the performance together. The proximity created an almost personal connection.

But it did not guarantee the best listening experience.

The Sound Problem: Ten Feet Can Make a Difference

From our position near the stage, the drums were sometimes too loud relative to the vocals, making it difficult to appreciate the balance of the performance.

People seated farther back experienced almost the opposite problem: they could not hear the voices clearly.

That contrast fascinated me. We were listening to the same musicians in the same room, yet experiencing very different versions of the performance. It made me think about the difference between hearing music and hearing a balanced musical performance.

A drum kit produces considerable acoustic energy on its own, while voices in a restaurant depend heavily on amplification and speaker placement. A mix that seems appropriate in one location may sound entirely different twenty or thirty feet away.

Unlike a purpose-built concert hall, a restaurant may not distribute sound evenly throughout the room. Where you sit becomes part of what you hear.

Turning the Camera Around: Two Perspectives of the Same Room

I took photographs to document this difference.

One shows our table and the stage beyond it, with plates, glasses, and remnants of dinner filling the foreground. It captures the intimacy of the performance.

Another looks toward the back of the restaurant, revealing a long, narrow dining area with booths, hanging lights, and customers seated at varying distances from the musicians.

That view helped me understand why the sound varied so dramatically. The music had to travel through booths, people, conversations, and restaurant activity. Those seated farther back were attending the same event, but not necessarily experiencing the same performance we were.

This raises an interesting question: When a restaurant offers live music, is the goal to create an audience or to provide an atmosphere?

Those are very different objectives.

Dinner and a Show: The Restaurant Experience

Pho Cao is also a restaurant, so food is part of the evening. The food was good, but the service was slow.

In a concert hall, the performance is the primary reason for attending. In a restaurant featuring live music, the evening combines dining, socializing, and listening. Slow service can be frustrating, though the pace may feel less urgent when you are already planning to spend the evening there.

Still, food and service contribute to the overall experience. The musicians may be excellent, but the quality of the evening depends on more than the performance alone.

Comparing Three Very Different Venues

My experiences at Arizona BBQ Shack, the Tempe Center for the Arts lobby, and Pho Cao are giving me a broader understanding of what makes a successful live music venue.

At a small restaurant or bar, the audience may be close enough to feel personally connected to the musicians, while the room’s layout, noise, and competing activities affect how the music is heard. At a performing arts center, even a lobby may offer more deliberate planning for audiences.

Pho Cao adds another variation. The stage is a focal point for those seated nearby, but the restaurant extends well beyond that listening area, making location especially important.

I am beginning to think there are at least three ways to experience live music:

Music as the main event: You arrive specifically to listen, and your attention remains focused on the performers.
Music as part of a social evening: You enjoy the performance while sharing dinner and conversation with friends.
Music as atmosphere: The musicians contribute to the character of the space, even when patrons are not actively listening.

None of these approaches is inherently wrong, but each creates different expectations for the performers, venue, and audience.

The Musician’s Perspective

I find myself wondering how these environments feel to the musicians.

What is it like to perform for an audience that can hear every note near the stage while people farther back cannot clearly distinguish the vocals? Does the musician direct the performance toward those closest to the stage? Do conversations and restaurant activity become distractions, or are they simply part of the environment?

These questions interest me because performing music involves more than technical ability; it also requires connecting with an audience. A venue can support that connection or make it more difficult.

What Makes a Good Music Venue?

After these experiences, I am less inclined to judge a venue by its size, appearance, or reputation. Instead, I am looking at the relationship between the musicians, audience, and physical space.

At Pho Cao, I enjoyed being close to the stage and spending the evening with Kim, Gary, our new acquaintance, and other locals. The food was good, and the atmosphere was casual and welcoming. But the uneven sound balance and slow service were also part of the experience.

The evening reinforced something I have been thinking about throughout this series: A good musical performance and a good live music experience are not necessarily the same thing.

The musicians provide the performance, but the venue determines how we experience it. Sometimes, moving just a few tables away can change everything.

Final Thoughts: Where You Sit Matters

My biggest takeaway from Pho Cao is how much perspective matters.

From ten feet away, the stage felt immediate and personal. Looking toward the back of the restaurant, I saw an entirely different listening environment. The photographs capture both perspectives, but they cannot fully document how differently the music sounded from each place in the room.

As I continue visiting venues, I want to pay closer attention not only to the performers but also to the architecture, acoustics, audience behavior, and overall experience.

Live music is never just about what happens onstage. It is also about everything happening around it.

And at Pho Cao, that was especially apparent.

Día de los Muertos: A Celebration of Life, Love, and Remembrance

2026-10-18T07:01:24.607-07:00

I adopted this as a personal holiday ever since I saw the movie “Coco”.

October 31 – November 2

Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is one of Mexico’s most meaningful cultural traditions. Rather than mourning death as an ending, the holiday celebrates the enduring connection between the living and those who have passed away.

Its central message is beautiful: Love does not end with death, and those we remember remain part of our lives.

The celebration combines Indigenous Mexican traditions of honoring ancestors with Catholic observances of All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day.

The three days of remembrance

October 31 – The Beginning of the Celebration

Families prepare their homes, decorate altars, and welcome the season of remembrance. In some regional traditions, the spirits of children are believed to begin returning during the night.

November 1 – Día de los Angelitos

The Day of the Little Angels honors children who have died. Families may place toys, sweets, photographs, and favorite foods on altars to welcome their spirits. November 1 also coincides with All Saints’ Day.

November 2 – Día de los Muertos

The principal day of remembrance for deceased adults, coinciding with All Souls’ Day. Families gather at cemeteries and homes, sharing stories, music, food, and memories of loved ones.

The symbolism behind the celebration

Every detail has meaning, from the flowers and candles to the elaborate costumes.

Marigolds (Cempasúchil)

Their vivid orange color and fragrance are traditionally believed to guide spirits home.

Sugar Skulls (Calaveras)

Colorful representations of mortality that celebrate individuality and remind us that death is part of life.

Papel Picado

Intricate paper banners symbolize the fragility of life and are often associated with the element of air.

Candles and Photographs

Candles illuminate the way, while photographs honor specific people and preserve their place in family memory.

Why people dress as skeletons

The beautifully painted faces in your couple’s illustration reflect the tradition of La Catrina, the elegantly dressed skeleton popularized by Mexican artist José Guadalupe Posada and later depicted by Diego Rivera.

Skeleton imagery carries a philosophical message: regardless of wealth, status, or appearance, death is the great equalizer.

Yet the imagery is not intended to be frightening. Elaborate clothing, flowers, music, and painted faces transform a potentially somber subject into a celebration of humanity.

The significance of my couple’s portrait

My original photograph captures a couple dressed elegantly for a special occasion. This is my mother and father photographed at my wedding in 1984. Transforming them into Día de los Muertos figures creates another layer of meaning.

Their formal clothing becomes festive ceremonial attire. The flowers represent affection and remembrance. The candles suggest the persistence of memory, while their closeness symbolizes a bond that extends beyond the passage of time.

Importantly, Día de los Muertos imagery is not reserved for people who have died. Living people also dress as Catrinas and Catrines to participate in the celebration and reflect on life’s impermanence.

The deeper philosophy is not that we should dwell on death, but that awareness of mortality should encourage us to celebrate life.

This is what makes the holiday so compelling artistically: it combines beauty, mortality, memory, cultural heritage, and love into a single visual language.

And perhaps its most moving lesson is that a person’s life continues to have meaning through the stories we tell, the photographs we preserve, and the love we carry forward.

Beyond the Signature: Understanding the Numbers and Letters on Original Artwork

2026-10-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

From artist’s proofs to limited editions, the small markings on a work of art tell a much larger story.

When we look at a piece of artwork, our attention naturally goes to the image itself. We study the composition, color, technique, and emotional impact. We may notice the artist’s signature, usually placed discreetly near the bottom.

But sometimes there are other markings beside that signature: A/P, 1/25, T/P, P/P, or H.C.

What do they mean? Why do some works have numbers while others have letters? And does an artist’s proof have more value than a numbered print?

As a photographer and digital artist, I find these questions particularly interesting. My creative process may begin with a photograph, continue through numerous transformations in Photoshop, and eventually result in a finished piece suitable for exhibition.

Along that journey, the image can exist in several forms. Some are experiments. Others are working versions. Eventually, one becomes the image I consider complete.

But when does an experiment become an original? When does a print become part of an edition? And how should an artist identify the difference?

The answers involve a fascinating combination of artistic tradition, printmaking history, and the modern realities of digital art.

1. The Journey from Concept to Completed Artwork

Before an artwork reaches a gallery wall, it may pass through numerous stages.

Traditional artists often begin with sketches or studies. Printmakers may create multiple proofs while refining an image. Photographers produce test prints to evaluate tonal range, color balance, contrast, and paper selection.

These developmental stages sometimes carry specific designations.

Marking	Classification	Purpose
SK	Sketch	Preliminary concept or composition
ST	Study	Exploration of technique, color, or subject
T/P or TP	Trial Proof	Experimental print used to evaluate a result
S/P or SP	State Proof	Print documenting a stage of development
B.A.T.	Bon à Tirer	Approved reference for final printing

Sketch and study are descriptive terms rather than universally standardized edition markings. Trial proofs and state proofs, however, have established traditions in printmaking.

The distinction is meaningful. A trial proof might test a different ink or printing technique. A state proof documents an actual change in the image or printing matrix. For digital photography, I can imagine a similar progression. I might photograph an architectural detail in France, then explore several artistic interpretations in Photoshop. One version might emphasize texture, another color, and another the relationship between light and shadow.

These are artistic experiments, even when the digital files are highly developed. If I print several versions to evaluate them, those physical prints could be identified as trial prints. They document decisions made along the way, rather than necessarily representing the final artwork.

2. B.A.T.: The Moment the Artist Says, “This Is It”

One of my favorite terms in traditional printmaking is Bon à Tirer, commonly abbreviated B.A.T.

The French expression means good to print.

Historically, it identifies the proof approved by the artist as the standard against which subsequent edition prints should be judged.

Think about the significance of that decision.

The artist has experimented, adjusted, evaluated, and finally declared that the image is ready.

No more changes to the color. No more adjustments to the contrast. No more experimentation with composition.

This is the approved version.

For a photographer, that moment might arrive after comparing several fine-art papers, making color corrections, and reviewing the image under appropriate lighting.

For a digital artist, it might follow dozens of Photoshop layers, masks, adjustments, and creative decisions.

The B.A.T. is not simply another print. It establishes the approved production reference.

There is something satisfying about giving that decision a formal designation.

It represents the transition from exploration to commitment.

3. Artist’s Proof: What Does A/P Really Mean?

Perhaps the most recognizable special designation is A/P, meaning Artist’s Proof.

Historically, artist’s proofs were impressions reserved for the artist outside the regular numbered edition.

In traditional printmaking, proofs could also provide opportunities to inspect the quality of printing. Modern artist’s proofs are generally expected to meet the same quality standard as the edition itself.

Suppose I produce a limited edition of 25 prints.

The regular edition would be numbered:

1/25
2/25
3/25
Continuing through 25/25

I might also authorize three artist’s proofs, identified as A/P 1/3, A/P 2/3, and A/P 3/3.

That means there are 25 regular edition prints and three artist’s proofs, for a total of 28 authorized impressions in those two categories.

The artist’s proofs are not automatically better than the regular prints.

They are distinguished primarily by their designation and their position outside the regular edition.

Are Artist’s Proofs More Valuable?

Sometimes.

Collectors may place a premium on artist’s proofs because they are fewer in number, were retained by the artist, or have a particularly interesting provenance.

However, the letters A/P do not guarantee additional value.

The artist’s reputation, quality of the work, documentation, rarity, and market demand all influence what collectors are willing to pay.

I think this is an important distinction because it separates the artistic significance of a piece from the marketing language sometimes associated with limited editions.

An artist’s proof should be identified accurately, not simply presented as something superior.

4. Understanding Limited-Edition Numbering

The familiar fraction on a print is one of the simplest ways to communicate its place within an edition.

For example:

7/25

The first number identifies the individual print. The second identifies the total number authorized in that regular edition.

In this example, the artwork is print number seven in an edition of 25.

The numbering does not necessarily tell us which print physically came off the printer seventh.

Nor does it mean that print number one is inherently better than print number 25.

In modern digital printing, properly produced prints from the same edition should meet the same approved quality standard.

This raises an interesting question for contemporary photography.

If an image can be reproduced almost perfectly using a digital file and a high-quality printer, what makes a limited edition genuinely limited?

The answer is not necessarily the technology.

It is the artist’s commitment to the declared edition size.

If I announce an edition of ten, collectors are trusting that I will honor that limitation.

The edition size becomes part of the artwork’s documented history.

That makes numbering not merely an administrative detail, but an ethical commitment between artist and collector.

5. Other Proofs: P/P, H.C., and Exhibition Copies

Beyond artist’s proofs and numbered editions, several other designations appear in the art world.

Marking	Meaning	Traditional Use
P/P	Printer’s Proof	Impression reserved for the printer or workshop
H.C.	Hors Commerce	Print designated outside the regular commercial edition
E/P	Exhibition Proof	Designation sometimes used for an exhibition copy
C/P	Cancellation Proof	Evidence that a printing plate or matrix has been canceled

H.C. is another French expression, meaning outside commerce.

These impressions have historically been used for purposes such as gifts, presentations, or other distribution outside the regular edition.

The designation does not permanently prohibit a print from being sold or transferred.

Printer’s proofs are associated with the people or workshops responsible for producing an edition.

Exhibition proofs are less standardized. Their meaning depends on the artist, publisher, or gallery.

Cancellation proofs belong particularly to traditional printmaking. A plate may be deliberately altered or defaced after an edition is completed so that additional impressions cannot be produced from the original matrix.

A final impression may document that cancellation.

In digital photography, there is no physical printing plate that can be canceled in quite the same way. The artist instead relies on edition records, production controls, and professional integrity.

These differences illustrate how older printmaking traditions continue to influence contemporary artistic practice, even when the technology has changed dramatically.

6. What Makes a Photograph an Original?

This is where the subject becomes particularly relevant to my own work.

When I take a photograph, I have created an original photographic image.

But what happens when I print it?

If I produce ten identical fine-art prints, are all ten originals?

In the language of fine-art photography, each authorized print may be considered an original photographic print within an edition, provided its production and authenticity are properly documented.

However, those ten prints are not ten unique, one-of-a-kind images.

They are ten authorized physical examples of the same artwork.

That distinction matters.

A unique artwork, often designated 1/1, means there is only one authorized example in that particular form.

A limited edition means multiple authorized examples exist, but the quantity is restricted.

An open edition means prints may continue to be produced without a predetermined numerical limit.

None of these categories automatically determines artistic quality.

A powerful image remains powerful whether it is unique, limited, or openly reproduced.

But the classification affects how collectors understand what they are purchasing.

7. Photoshop Complicates the Definition of Originality

My own artistic process often moves beyond traditional photography.

I may begin with a recognizable scene and then alter its colors, textures, lighting, and composition. I may combine photographic elements or create a painterly interpretation of the original image.

At what point does the resulting work become a different artwork?

Suppose I photograph a French village street.

The original photograph documents the location as I saw it.

Then I create a painterly version with altered textures, colors, and atmospheric effects.

Later, I create another interpretation that emphasizes architectural geometry.

Are these three versions part of the same edition?

I would argue that if the artistic changes are substantial enough to create distinctly different finished compositions, they deserve separate artwork identities.

Each could have its own title, edition records, and production specifications.

Minor printing adjustments, however, do not necessarily justify declaring a completely new artwork.

An artist should establish a consistent policy for distinguishing a new composition from a variant or printing adjustment.

This is especially important in digital art, where creating variations is technically easy.

The artistic decision is not simply whether another version can be made.

It is whether that version represents a new creative statement.

8. Does Size Change the Edition?

Another question arises when producing artwork for exhibitions.

Suppose I create a photographic composition and offer it in three sizes:

8 × 12 inches
16 × 24 inches
24 × 36 inches

Could each size have a separate limited edition?

Yes, provided the edition structure is clearly established and disclosed.

An artist might authorize ten prints at one size and five at another.

Alternatively, an edition might be limited to a total number of prints regardless of size.

Both approaches exist in fine-art photography.

What matters is transparency.

A collector purchasing print 3/10 should be able to understand whether that limitation applies only to a particular size or to the artwork across all sizes.

Personally, I find the idea of documenting edition size, physical dimensions, printing process, and paper type particularly appealing.

It creates a historical record of how the artwork was presented.

9. Signing and Documenting the Finished Work

A signature establishes a personal connection between artist and artwork, but a professional record can communicate much more.

For a fine-art photographic print, useful information includes:

Artwork title and year of creation
Artist’s signature
Edition number or proof designation
Image and paper dimensions
Printing process and paper type
Date of printing
Certificate of authenticity or corresponding archival record

Traditional printmakers often sign and number works in pencil beneath the image, usually with the edition number on the left and signature on the right.

Photographers and digital artists may sign in the lower margin, on the reverse, or through an accompanying certificate.

There is no single rule appropriate for every medium or presentation.

A canvas wrap, aluminum print, and matted archival pigment print may each require a different approach.

The important consideration is consistency.

A clearly documented artwork should remain identifiable even if it changes owners or is exhibited many years later.

10. Is There a Hierarchy of Artistic Value?

When I first began looking at these designations, I wondered whether they could be arranged in a hierarchy, from preliminary artwork through increasingly valuable or completed pieces.

In terms of the creative process, a progression makes sense:

Sketch → Study → Trial Proof → State Proof → Approved Print → Finished Edition

But artist’s proofs, printer’s proofs, and Hors Commerce impressions do not represent higher levels of artistic completion.

They are classifications within or alongside the finished production process.

A/P is not automatically above 1/25.

Likewise, 1/25 is not automatically superior to 25/25.

And a preliminary study can sometimes become historically more valuable than the finished work because it reveals something extraordinary about the artist’s creative thinking.

That is one of the fascinating contradictions of the art market.

The markings tell us about production, scarcity, and provenance.

They do not tell us whether the artwork is good.

11. What I Would Like to Incorporate into My Own Artistic Practice

As I continue developing photographic and digital artwork for exhibitions, I see an opportunity to make the documentation of my work more systematic.

I would like each finished piece to have a clear identity that follows it from the digital file through printing, framing, exhibition, and eventual sale or retention.

A trial print should be identifiable as a trial.

An artist’s proof should be distinguishable from a regular edition print.

A unique composition should have a permanent record of its dimensions, medium, and date.

And if I establish a limited edition, the total authorized quantity should remain fixed.

I also like the possibility of retaining selected developmental prints.

Years later, those versions might reveal how an image evolved from its original photograph into the finished composition.

They could provide a visual history of the creative process, much as an artist’s sketchbook does for painting or drawing.

For me, that history is part of the artwork’s story.

Final Thoughts: The Story Behind the Number

The letters and numbers written beside an artist’s signature may appear to be minor details.

But they represent something much larger.

They tell us whether a print was experimental, approved, reserved, or part of a limited edition.

They connect contemporary photography and digital art to centuries of printmaking tradition.

They establish expectations between artists, galleries, and collectors.

And they encourage artists to think carefully about what constitutes a finished work.

Perhaps most importantly, they remind us that the creative process does not end when the image looks complete on a computer screen.

There are still decisions about materials, printing, presentation, edition size, documentation, and preservation.

As an artist, I find those decisions interesting because they require a different kind of creativity: deciding how the artwork will exist in the world.

The image communicates the artistic vision. The signature identifies its creator. And the numbers and letters help preserve its history.

One final question remains: If two prints are visually identical, but one is numbered 1/10 and the other is marked A/P, should we experience them differently as works of art? Or is that distinction something we bring to the artwork rather than something we actually see?

What Did I Give Up by Leaving the Canon at Home?

2026-10-14T13:38:00.000-07:00

What Did I Give Up by Leaving the Canon at Home?

Of course, the iPhone does not replace every capability of a DSLR.

My Canon EOS 60D offers interchangeable lenses, optical viewfinder shooting, and more flexibility with certain specialized photographic techniques.

A dedicated telephoto lens remains valuable for distant subjects. A macro lens can offer greater control for close-up work. Traditional camera controls can also be preferable for particular long-exposure and action-photography situations.

And there are circumstances where a larger sensor and specialized optics offer advantages, especially when working with difficult light or planning extensive image manipulation.

But I had to ask myself a different question.

Did I actually need those capabilities for this trip?

I wasn’t planning to photograph distant wildlife or fast-moving sporting events. I wasn’t carrying out a specialized commercial assignment.

I was documenting travel, architecture, landscapes, street life, and personal experiences.

For those purposes, the iPhone proved to be an excellent choice.

The equipment I left at home represented capabilities I might have used.

The equipment I carried provided the capabilities I actually needed.

That is an important distinction.

A Few Frustrations Along the Way

I should admit that using the iPhone was not completely trouble-free.

There were times when the sunlight was so bright that the screen became extremely dark. I could still operate the phone, but seeing the composition clearly was difficult. With a traditional camera, I would normally look through the viewfinder, but with the iPhone I had to rely on a screen that was sometimes almost impossible to read in direct sunlight.

I had also purchased a magnetic attachment that made the iPhone feel more like a conventional camera. It provided a more secure grip and included a button on top that I could press to take photographs. I found it very useful, especially when I wanted to hold the phone steadily and concentrate on the scene rather than tapping the screen.

Unfortunately, there was one occasion when I went out without it.

While taking photographs, my thumb accidentally touched the screen and switched the camera from the rear-facing camera to the front-facing, self-portrait camera. I did not realize what had happened. I continued photographing, assuming I was capturing the buildings and streets in front of me.

Later, when I reached a place where I could review the images properly, I discovered that the entire series consisted of selfies.

It was extremely frustrating—and more than a little disappointing. The photographs I thought I had taken were not photographs of France at all, but accidental portraits of me.

That experience taught me an important lesson: when using a phone as a camera, accessories and screen awareness matter. The iPhone is remarkably capable, but it is still a phone, and the controls can be easier to disturb accidentally than those of a traditional camera.

So, although I returned from France convinced that the iPhone was the right camera for this trip, I also learned to carry the magnetic attachment whenever possible, keep a close eye on the screen, and check a few photographs before continuing with an entire series.

The Photograph That Stays With Us: Roland Barthes and Camera Lucida

2026-10-13T20:15:04.127-07:00

Why do some photographs capture our attention while others capture our emotions?

I have taken thousands of photographs over the years. Some were carefully composed, technically correct, and captured exactly what I intended. Others were spontaneous moments, photographs that might not win a competition or impress a photography judge, yet somehow became far more meaningful to me.

Why?

What makes one photograph interesting and another unforgettable?

This question lies at the heart of Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, written by French philosopher and literary theorist Roland Barthes and first published in 1980.

Barthes was not writing a technical photography manual. He was not particularly concerned with shutter speeds, apertures, lighting equipment, or the rules of composition.

He wanted to understand something much more personal.

Why do certain photographs affect us so deeply?

And perhaps more importantly, why can the same photograph mean something entirely different to two people?

The Difference Between Looking and Feeling

Barthes introduced two concepts that provide a fascinating framework for understanding how we experience photographs: studium and punctum.

These two Latin terms describe different ways we connect with photographic images.

Studium: Understanding the Photograph

Studium refers to our general interest in a photograph. It includes everything we recognize, understand, appreciate, and interpret through our cultural knowledge and experience.

Consider a photograph of a medieval French village.

We might admire the architecture, the narrow cobblestone streets, the beautiful stone buildings, or the afternoon light illuminating a church.

We recognize the historical significance of the location. We appreciate the photographer’s composition. We might even wonder how the village has changed over the centuries.

All of this belongs to studium.

It is the intellectual and cultural relationship we establish with the photograph.

As a photographer, I spend considerable time thinking about these elements. Where should I stand? What belongs in the frame? How does the light influence the composition? What story am I trying to tell?

These decisions help create an image that communicates something to the viewer.

But Barthes believed there was another dimension to photography, one that cannot necessarily be planned or controlled.

Punctum: The Detail That Pierces Us

Punctum is the element in a photograph that unexpectedly reaches out and touches us.

It might be a small detail that the photographer never intended to emphasize.

A child’s hand resting on a grandmother’s shoulder.

A pair of worn shoes beside a doorway.

A person standing alone in the background of a busy street.

Or perhaps an expression that reminds us of someone we once knew.

The punctum is not necessarily the main subject. It may not even be particularly noticeable to anyone else.

Yet for one viewer, it becomes the most important part of the photograph.

Barthes described punctum as something that wounds or pierces the spectator.

I find that description particularly interesting because it suggests that photography is not simply a process of transmitting information from the photographer to the viewer.

Sometimes the photograph reaches into the viewer’s own memories and experiences.

And the resulting emotion belongs as much to the viewer as to the image.

Can a Photographer Deliberately Create Punctum?

This raises an interesting question.

If punctum is what makes a photograph emotionally powerful, shouldn’t photographers try to create it?

Perhaps, but there is a problem.

We cannot know exactly what another person will bring to a photograph.

Imagine photographing an old farmhouse in rural Pennsylvania.

I might be interested in the weathered wood, the surrounding fields, and the contrast between the building and the landscape.

Another viewer might see a charming historical structure.

But someone who grew up on a similar farm might notice a small porch swing and suddenly remember sitting beside a grandparent on a summer evening.

For that person, the porch swing becomes the punctum.

The photographer may not have considered it important at all.

This is one of the most compelling aspects of Barthes’ theory.

The photographer creates the image, but cannot completely control the viewer’s experience of it.

We can arrange the composition, select the subject, and establish the visual narrative.

But we cannot determine which detail will reach into another person’s memory.

The Photograph as Evidence of Time

Barthes introduced another concept that I find particularly powerful.

Every photograph contains an unavoidable relationship with time.

A photograph tells us that something existed in front of the camera at a particular moment.

Barthes called this the that-has-been.

The people, places, and objects recorded in the photograph were there when the image was made.

But that moment is gone.

Even if the subject still exists, the particular instant captured by the camera can never happen again.

Consider a photograph taken at a family gathering twenty years ago.

At the time, it may have seemed ordinary.

People sitting around a table. Someone laughing. A child reaching for a piece of cake.

Years later, the same photograph can carry an entirely different emotional weight.

The child has grown up. The house may have been sold. Some of the people may no longer be alive.

The photograph has not changed.

But our relationship with it has.

What was once documentation has become memory.

And what was once a casual snapshot may now be among our most treasured possessions.

This is why photography occupies such a remarkable position among the visual arts.

It does not simply represent an imagined world.

In traditional photography, it also preserves a trace of a moment that actually occurred.

The Winter Garden Photograph

One of the most moving parts of Camera Lucida concerns Barthes’ search for a photograph of his mother after her death.

He examined photographs of her from different periods of her life.

Some were recognizable. Some were historically interesting. Some captured her appearance accurately.

Yet they did not give him the emotional recognition he was seeking.

Eventually, he discovered a photograph of his mother as a young child, standing in a winter garden.

Although the photograph had been taken long before Barthes was born, he felt that it revealed something essential about the person he had known and loved.

It was not simply a likeness.

It was a recognition.

Interestingly, Barthes chose not to reproduce this photograph in the book.

He understood that readers would not necessarily experience what he experienced.

To someone else, it might appear to be an ordinary childhood portrait.

To him, it carried the emotional presence of his mother.

This decision reinforces one of the central ideas of the book.

The deepest meaning of a photograph may be intensely personal and impossible to communicate completely to another person.

Photography, Memory, and My Own Experiences

I think about this when reviewing photographs from my travels.

During my recent trip to France, I photographed villages, churches, markets, streets, architectural details, and everyday encounters.

Many of these images were created with a particular purpose. I wanted to document the places I visited and capture visual material for the stories I would eventually write.

But when I returned home and began reviewing the photographs, I noticed something interesting.

The photographs I considered technically strongest were not always the ones that brought back the most vivid memories.

Sometimes a simple street scene recalled the sounds of a market, the temperature of the afternoon, or a conversation that occurred just before I pressed the shutter.

A photograph of a doorway might remind me of wandering through a village without any particular destination.

A café photograph might bring back the pleasure of sitting quietly and watching the world move around me.

Someone else looking at those images would not have access to those experiences.

They would see the composition, architecture, color, and subject matter.

I would see all of those things, but I would also remember what happened outside the frame.

This makes me wonder whether the emotional significance of a photograph can exist partly beyond the visible image itself.

The photograph becomes a trigger.

The memory completes the experience.

What Happens When Photography Becomes Digital Art?

Barthes wrote Camera Lucida long before digital photography, Photoshop, and generative artificial intelligence transformed image-making.

That makes his ideas particularly interesting today.

I frequently work with photographs beyond their original camera capture. I may adjust color, modify textures, combine elements, or transform a photographic image into something more painterly.

Sometimes the finished artwork bears little resemblance to the original photograph.

So what happens to Barthes’ that-has-been?

If I photograph a real village and then transform the image into a painterly composition, the original photographic foundation still connects the work to an actual place and moment.

But if I add a building that never existed, change the sky, or introduce imaginary figures, the finished image becomes a combination of documentation and invention.

The individual photographic elements may still have historical origins, but the complete scene no longer represents a single event that occurred before the camera.

This does not necessarily diminish its artistic value.

It simply changes the relationship between the artwork and reality.

A photograph may begin as evidence.

A digital composition may become interpretation.

And an AI-generated image may represent a scene that never existed at all.

Yet all three might produce a powerful emotional response.

Which leads to another question.

Does an image need to document reality to create something resembling punctum?

Can Abstract Art Have Punctum?

This question connects directly to another subject I have been exploring: When does abstract become art?

In abstract painting, the viewer may encounter colors, shapes, textures, gestures, and relationships without any recognizable subject.

There may be no identifiable person, place, or object.

Yet an abstract composition can still provoke an unexpectedly powerful response.

A particular shade of blue might recall the ocean.

A rough texture might suggest an abandoned wall.

A small red shape surrounded by darkness might evoke loneliness, tension, or hope.

The artist may not have intended any of these associations.

But the viewer experiences them nonetheless.

Could that be a form of punctum?

Strictly speaking, Barthes developed his concept in relation to photography, with its distinctive connection to reality and time.

An abstract painting does not necessarily possess that same photographic relationship to something that has existed.

Nevertheless, the emotional mechanism is worth considering.

Perhaps the most compelling artwork is not always the work that communicates its intended meaning most clearly.

Perhaps it is sometimes the work that allows viewers to discover meanings the artist never anticipated.

The Photographer, the Subject, and the Viewer

Barthes identified three important participants in photography.

The Operator is the photographer who makes the image.

The Spectrum is the person or thing being photographed.

The Spectator is the person who looks at the photograph.

Each occupies a different position in the photographic experience.

The photographer knows what was happening when the picture was taken.

The subject may have an entirely different understanding of the moment.

And the viewer may bring personal associations that neither the photographer nor the subject could have predicted.

This means that a photograph does not necessarily have one fixed interpretation.

Its meaning can evolve depending on who is looking at it, when they encounter it, and what experiences they bring with them.

Even the same person may respond differently to a photograph at different points in life.

An image that seems unremarkable today may become deeply significant twenty years from now.

Is Technical Excellence Enough?

As photographers, we spend considerable effort developing technical skills.

We learn exposure, depth of field, composition, lighting, focus, and post-processing.

We study the work of other photographers and try to understand what makes their images successful.

All of these skills matter.

They allow us to communicate more effectively and create images that are visually compelling.

But Camera Lucida challenges us to consider something beyond technical achievement.

A perfectly exposed, beautifully composed photograph may attract admiration without creating a lasting emotional connection.

Meanwhile, an imperfect family snapshot may become irreplaceable.

Does that mean technical excellence is unimportant?

Of course not.

It means technical excellence and emotional significance are different qualities.

They can exist together, but one does not guarantee the other.

A photograph can be technically extraordinary and emotionally distant.

It can also be technically ordinary and emotionally profound.

The most memorable images may be those in which visual skill and personal meaning come together.

Does the Viewer Complete the Photograph?

I keep returning to this question.

When I make a photograph, I decide what to include in the frame.

I choose the moment, the perspective, and the visual relationships.

I may spend hours refining the image afterward.

But when someone else encounters the finished photograph, the work enters a new relationship.

The viewer brings memories, expectations, cultural knowledge, and emotional associations that I cannot fully anticipate.

A detail I considered unimportant may become the reason the photograph matters to that person.

This does not mean that the artist’s intention is irrelevant.

It means the artist’s intention is not the only source of meaning.

The image becomes a meeting place between the photographer’s experience and the viewer’s life.

And perhaps that is one of photography’s greatest strengths.

Final Thoughts: The Images We Carry With Us

What I appreciate most about Roland Barthes’ Camera Lucida is that it encourages us to think about photography beyond the camera.

It asks us to consider not simply what an image shows, but what happens when someone looks at it.

Why does one photograph remain in our memory for years while another disappears almost immediately?

Why can a tiny detail become more important than the central subject?

Why does a photograph sometimes become more meaningful as time passes?

And why can an ordinary snapshot carry more emotional power than a carefully constructed work of art?

Barthes does not provide a formula for creating unforgettable photographs.

In fact, his ideas suggest that no such formula may exist.

We can learn to see more carefully.

We can become better photographers.

We can create thoughtful compositions and develop our artistic skills.

But we cannot completely predict what another person will feel.

Perhaps that uncertainty is part of what makes photography so fascinating.

The photographer captures a moment. The photograph preserves a trace of it. The viewer discovers what it means.

And sometimes, long after the camera has been put away, a small detail in an otherwise ordinary photograph reaches out and touches something we did not know was waiting to be remembered.

That may be the photograph that stays with us.

References

Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. Originally published in French as La Chambre claire: Note sur la photographie (1980). English translation by Richard Howard, Hill and Wang, 1981.

Blog Labels

Photography, Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, Photography Philosophy, Studium, Punctum, Art and Interpretation, Visual Storytelling, Photography and Memory, Digital Art, Abstract Art, Creative Process, Photoshop, Travel Photography, Artificial Intelligence and Art

Two Stages, Two Experiences: When the Venue Becomes Part of the Music

2026-10-11T14:41:46.370-07:00

From the casual atmosphere of Arizona BBQ Shack to the contemporary architecture of Tempe Center for the Arts

There is something fascinating about listening to live music in different environments. The musicians may be playing the same instruments, performing similar songs, and bringing the same level of talent to their performances. Yet the experience can be remarkably different depending on where they are playing.

Recently, I had the opportunity to photograph musicians in two very different settings: a small Arizona BBQ Shack restaurant in Scottsdale and the lobby of Tempe Center for the Arts.

Looking through my photographs, I began thinking about how much the venue influences not only the audience’s experience but also the musicians’ performances.

The BBQ Shack: Music Served with Dinner

At the BBQ shack, the music feels like part of the restaurant’s personality.

Guitars hang along the walls, warm pendant lights glow overhead, and colorful lighting gives the room an inviting atmosphere. The musicians perform just a few feet from tables where people are eating, talking, and enjoying their evening.

There is no dramatic separation between performer and audience. The musicians are simply part of the room.

And that creates a special kind of intimacy.

Someone might arrive primarily for dinner, order a pulled-pork sandwich, and discover that the live entertainment becomes the highlight of the evening.

The music is not necessarily the reason everyone came, but it may be the reason they stay longer.

For the musicians, this environment presents an interesting challenge. They are competing with conversations, dishes, servers moving between tables, and the normal activity of a restaurant.

They must find a balance between entertaining and becoming part of the atmosphere.

A familiar song might cause someone to look up from dinner. A particularly good guitar solo might interrupt a conversation. Applause may come from only a handful of people, but those people are close enough for the musicians to see their reactions.

This is music on a personal scale.

Photograph: The wide interior view with the red-and-white checkered food basket in the foreground and musicians in the background. It tells the entire story in one image: dinner, atmosphere, and entertainment sharing the same space.

Tempe Center for the Arts: Music in an Architectural Setting

The lobby of Tempe Center for the Arts creates a very different visual and emotional environment.

Here, the architecture becomes part of the performance.

Large windows, contemporary structural lines, reflective surfaces, and the surrounding urban landscape create a striking backdrop for the musicians.

Instead of guitars decorating the walls, the building itself provides the visual interest.

The musicians appear more isolated from the everyday activity surrounding them. Even though this is a lobby rather than a traditional concert hall, the setting gives the performance a different character.

There is a sense of presentation.

The microphone, guitar, and musician become the focal points against a background of glass and geometric patterns.

As a photographer, I found this particularly interesting.

The restaurant photographs tell a story about a place where music is happening. The Tempe Center photographs tell a story about musicians performing.

That distinction may seem subtle, but it changes the entire visual narrative.

Photograph: The musician, seated with his guitar against the large windows. The architecture provides a clean, contemporary contrast to the traditional instrument.

How the Setting Changes the Performance

A musician’s technical skills do not suddenly change when moving from a restaurant to an arts center. But the environment can influence how those skills are presented and received.

In a small restaurant, performers often need to be flexible. They may adjust their volume, pacing, or interaction based on the activity in the room.

The audience is constantly changing. People arrive, order food, finish dinner, and leave.

In an arts center lobby, the audience may be more inclined to stop and listen, particularly when attending an event associated with the arts.

The performance may feel more deliberate, even if the musicians are playing informally.

Acoustics can also make a difference. Restaurant furnishings, conversations, and the shape of the room affect how music is heard. A large lobby with glass and hard architectural surfaces presents its own challenges, potentially creating reflections and reverberation that require careful sound management.

Neither environment is automatically better.

They simply ask different things of the musicians.

The Photographer’s Perspective

For me, the most interesting difference was how I approached photographing the two locations.

At the BBQ shack, I wanted to capture the environment.

The hanging guitars, warm lighting, tables, food, and musicians all contributed to the story. A close-up photograph of a performer would have shown the musician, but it would not have explained what made the location special.

I needed a wider perspective.

At Tempe Center for the Arts, I found myself concentrating on individual musicians.

Their facial expressions, hand positions, guitars, and microphones became the important elements. The building’s geometry provided an interesting background without requiring the entire lobby to be included.

The lighting also created different challenges.

The restaurant had warm amber tones mixed with dramatic red lighting. That atmosphere was wonderful to experience, but photographing it required balancing several competing light sources.

At Tempe Center, the large windows and surrounding reflective surfaces produced a cooler, more architectural environment. The challenge was separating the musicians from the complex patterns behind them.

Both locations offered opportunities to tell a story, but they required different photographic decisions.

photographs: The musicians at each venue. The comparison emphasizes facial expression, instrument, and performance while showing how differently the backgrounds influence the images.

Intimacy Versus Presentation

One of the things I appreciate about small music venues is the accessibility of the performers.

At a restaurant, the musicians may be only a few steps away. Between songs, there may be opportunities for conversation, requests, or a quick acknowledgment from someone at a nearby table.

The performance becomes a shared social experience.

At Tempe Center for the Arts, the relationship between musician and audience can feel different. The architecture and cultural setting lend a sense of occasion to the performance.

But that does not mean the music becomes less personal.

In fact, a quiet lobby performance can create an intimate listening experience of its own, especially when someone stops, pays attention, and becomes absorbed in the music.

One environment invites music into everyday life.

The other places everyday life inside an artistic environment.

Does the Venue Change the Value of the Music?

This is perhaps the most interesting question.

We often associate prestigious venues with important performances. A concert hall, theater, or arts center carries a certain cultural expectation.

But musical talent is not determined by the building in which it appears.

An extraordinary guitarist may be playing in the corner of a small restaurant while people eat dinner. Another musician may be performing in a beautiful architectural setting before an attentive audience.

Both deserve appreciation.

The restaurant performance reminds us that art does not need a formal stage.

The arts center reminds us that thoughtful surroundings can elevate how we experience that art.

And sometimes, the most memorable performance is the one we were not expecting.

Final Thoughts: Two Venues, One Common Language

Looking at these photographs side by side, I see two very different environments connected by one common element: musicians sharing their craft.

One setting is warm, casual, and filled with the activity of everyday life.

The other is contemporary, architectural, and associated with a dedicated cultural destination.

Both offer opportunities for musicians to connect with people.

Both offer interesting challenges for a photographer.

And both remind me that live music is about much more than the notes being played.

It is about the room, the people, the atmosphere, and the unexpected moments when someone stops what they are doing and simply listens.

The venue changes the experience. The music creates the connection.

Blog labels: Arizona Music, Live Music, Arizona BBQ, Tempe Center for the Arts, Music Photography, Guitarists, Local Musicians, Performance Photography, Photography and Architecture, Arizona Arts, Small Venues, Visual Storytelling

One architectural detail worth adding to the Tempe section: the lobby was intentionally designed as a dramatic gathering space, with expansive glass walls and views toward Tempe Town Lake. This reinforces the theme that architecture influences how a performance is experienced.

When Does Abstract Become Art?

2026-10-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

When Does Abstract Become Art?

An Exploration of Creativity, Interpretation, and the Meaning of Art

I was walking through an art exhibition when I encountered a series of five large abstract paintings hanging along a wall. Each was dramatically different. One featured a dark background with a mysterious white form. Another contained delicate, almost hesitant lines. Others exploded with brilliant reds, yellows, and blues.

The signs said "Chair" in the description.

I stopped, looked at them, and found myself asking a question that has probably crossed the minds of countless museum visitors:

When does abstract become art?

Or perhaps the more provocative question is, what makes something art in the first place?

Art Without a Recognizable Subject

When I photograph a landscape, paint a building, or create a portrait, the viewer generally recognizes the subject. They may appreciate the composition, lighting, color, technique, or emotional impact.

Abstract art removes that familiar reference point.

A collection of lines might represent a city, a memory, or nothing recognizable at all. A splash of yellow might suggest sunshine, happiness, anxiety, or simply the artist’s fascination with color.

The viewer is left to interpret the work without instructions.

Looking at these five paintings, I wondered whether I was supposed to recognize something. Was I missing a hidden meaning? Did the artist have a particular message in mind?

Or was the experience of looking and questioning the entire point?

Is Artistic Intention Enough?

Consider two situations.

A child spills paint across a sheet of paper. The result is a fascinating combination of colors, shapes, and textures.

An established artist deliberately pours paint onto a canvas, carefully controlling its movement, density, and interaction with other colors.

The results might look remarkably similar.

Yet one might end up on a refrigerator while the other hangs in a major museum.

Why?

Perhaps the distinction lies in intention. The artist made deliberate choices about materials, composition, color, and presentation.

But that raises another question.

If an accidental paint spill creates something visually extraordinary, is it less artistic because nobody intended to create it?

And if someone deliberately paints a single line across a canvas, does intention automatically make it meaningful art?

I am not convinced there is a simple answer.

The Role of Skill

As someone who works with photography, digital manipulation, and painterly techniques, I appreciate the technical skills involved in producing an image.

I understand the importance of composition, balance, contrast, texture, and color relationships.

Looking at abstract paintings, however, I sometimes struggle to identify the skill involved.

Could I reproduce something similar? Perhaps.

But reproducing the appearance of a painting is not necessarily the same as developing the idea behind it.

An accomplished abstract artist may spend years studying how colors interact, how shapes influence perception, and how visual elements communicate emotion.

What looks spontaneous may actually represent hundreds of decisions.

On the other hand, not every abstract painting is necessarily a masterpiece simply because its creator calls it art.

Artistic intention and artistic achievement are not identical.

Does the Viewer Complete the Artwork?

One of the most interesting things about abstract art is that two people can look at the same painting and have completely different reactions.

One person sees movement and energy.

Another sees confusion.

Someone else sees absolutely nothing worth contemplating.

Does that mean the artwork has failed?

Perhaps not.

Unlike a photograph documenting a recognizable location, abstract art often invites viewers to bring their own experiences, memories, and emotions into the interpretation.

In that sense, the viewer becomes a participant in creating meaning.

The artist creates the object. The viewer creates a personal relationship with it.

But I wonder whether that relationship must exist for the object to qualify as art.

The Museum Effect

There is another fascinating dimension to this question.

Imagine taking one of these paintings off the gallery wall and placing it in a garage sale.

Would people recognize it as significant artwork?

Would they stop to study the composition?

Would they pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for it?

Or would they walk past without a second glance?

Museums, galleries, curators, collectors, and critics all influence how we perceive artistic value.

A painting displayed in a prestigious exhibition arrives with an implied message: This deserves your attention.

That does not necessarily make the work better. But it changes how we approach it.

The gallery gives us permission, and perhaps an expectation, to search for meaning.

When Does Abstract Become Art?

After considering these questions, I find myself separating two ideas that are often treated as interchangeable.

Something can be art without necessarily being good art.

Art is not required to be realistic, beautiful, technically complicated, or immediately understandable.

It can be an exploration of form, an emotional expression, a conceptual statement, or an experiment that challenges conventional expectations.

Whether it succeeds is another matter entirely.

For me, compelling abstract art should accomplish at least one thing. It should make me feel something, notice something, question something, or see the familiar in an unfamiliar way.

It does not have to please me.

It does not even have to make sense immediately.

But I want it to offer more than the assertion that it is art.

A Question Worth Asking

I returned my attention to the five paintings on the wall.

Some intrigued me more than others. I appreciated the bold colors in one, the restrained line work in another, and the unusual forms in the darkest painting.

I could not necessarily explain what the artist intended.

And perhaps I did not need to.

What I found most interesting was that these paintings had prompted me to stop, look, compare, question, and think about the nature of artistic expression.

That, in itself, was an experience.

Perhaps abstract art becomes meaningful not at the moment paint touches canvas, but when something happens between the artwork and the person looking at it.

My conclusion? The artist determines what they intend to create. The viewer determines what it means to them. And history may eventually determine what is considered important.

Those are three very different judgments.

And I am still left with one final question:

If I look at an abstract painting and feel nothing, have I failed to understand the art, or has the art failed to communicate with me?

I suspect that question is precisely why abstract art continues to generate so much discussion.

And perhaps that is part of its value.

An example and experiment. These sketches show the series as I worked to remove lines. Is the end too abstract? Or can you see what it is?

The Paperless Office: Have We Lost Something Along the Way?

2026-10-09T10:30:00.000-07:00

Finding the balance between digital efficiency and the way we actually think and work

For years, businesses have been moving toward the paperless office. Documents are created electronically, distributed through email, stored in shared repositories, and reviewed on computer screens. We have eliminated filing cabinets, reduced printing costs, saved physical space, and made information accessible almost anywhere.

These are significant improvements.

But I have discovered something interesting in my own work. Just because a document can be digital doesn’t necessarily mean that working with it digitally is always the most effective approach.

Sometimes I want that piece of paper sitting beside my keyboard.

The Hidden Cost of the Paperless Office

Consider a typical business activity. I am developing a report, analyzing requirements, reviewing a proposal, or comparing information from several documents.

The reference material is stored digitally, which is wonderful until I need to use it while simultaneously working on something else.

Now I am switching between windows, scrolling through pages, trying to remember where I saw a particular statement, and occasionally losing my train of thought.

I can highlight text electronically. I can insert comments. I can open multiple windows or use a second monitor.

But these techniques don’t always reproduce the experience of spreading several pages across a desk, circling an important statement, drawing an arrow between two ideas, or writing a question in the margin.

There is something valuable about seeing the entire working landscape at once.

And sometimes the technology intended to make us more efficient introduces additional steps into a process that used to be quite simple.

Two Different Activities: Storing Information and Thinking With Information

Perhaps we have been treating two different activities as though they were the same.

Information management involves storing, organizing, retrieving, protecting, and distributing documents. Digital technology excels at these activities.

Information analysis involves reading, interpreting, comparing, questioning, connecting ideas, and making decisions.

Digital technology can support analysis extremely well, but paper sometimes provides a more natural workspace.

A document can be perfectly stored in a digital repository and still be inconvenient to work with.

The distinction matters because the purpose of a business document isn’t simply to exist. It is to help someone accomplish something.

A Better Approach: The Hybrid Document Workflow

Rather than declaring that everything must be digital or returning to stacks of paper, I propose sorting documents according to how they will be used.

Category 1: Digital Only

These documents should remain electronic because there is little benefit in printing them.

Examples include routine correspondence, reference manuals that are rarely consulted, completed reports, meeting notices, archived records, and documents primarily used for searching or sharing.

Rule: If I am storing, retrieving, transmitting, or occasionally consulting the information, digital is probably the better choice.

Category 2: Digital Working Documents

These are documents I actively edit, collaborate on, or revise frequently.

Examples include project plans, spreadsheets, Power BI requirements, presentations, shared procedures, and reports undergoing multiple revisions.

Digital tools are particularly valuable because they support collaboration, change tracking, and version control.

Rule: If the document is changing frequently or several people are working on it, keep the authoritative working version digital.

Category 3: Temporary Printed Working Copies

This is the category that deserves more attention.

These documents are stored digitally but temporarily printed because I need to study, annotate, compare, or understand them.

Examples include complex business requirements, lengthy proposals, process diagrams, meeting preparation materials, and documents containing information I must repeatedly reference while developing another deliverable.

A printed copy becomes a temporary analytical tool rather than a permanent record.

Rule: If printing the document reduces mental effort, repetitive navigation, or the risk of overlooking important information, printing may be justified.

A Simple Decision Process

Before printing, I can ask five questions:

Am I simply reading this document, or actively analyzing it?
Will I need to reference it repeatedly while working in another application?
Will handwritten annotations, highlighting, or spatial arrangement help me understand it?
Is the document relatively stable, or will a printed copy become outdated quickly?
Can I print only the pages I actually need?

If the document is being actively analyzed, frequently referenced, and is reasonably stable, a temporary printed copy may be the most efficient choice.

If not, I should consider whether split-screen viewing, digital annotations, or a second monitor would accomplish the same purpose.

The Most Important Step: Closing the Loop

There is one risk in a hybrid approach.

What happens to all those handwritten notes?

If I mark up a printed document and then put it into a drawer, I have created a second information repository. Worse, my most important insights may exist only on paper.

The solution is to establish a simple closing process:

Print only the material necessary for the task.
Use highlighting, handwritten notes, symbols, and diagrams during analysis.
Transfer important decisions, questions, corrections, and action items back into the digital system.
Update the authoritative document or record.
Securely dispose of the temporary paper copy when it is no longer needed, following the organization’s retention and confidentiality policies.

The digital document remains the official record. The printed copy serves as a temporary workspace.

This distinction prevents the hybrid approach from becoming a disorganized collection of competing versions.

Efficiency Is More Than Saving Paper

Businesses often measure the success of digital transformation through reduced printing costs, fewer physical files, and faster document distribution.

But what about the time employees spend switching between applications?

What about the cognitive effort required to remember information that is no longer visible on the screen?

What about errors caused by overlooking a requirement buried in a lengthy document?

These costs are harder to measure, but they are still real.

Saving twenty pages of printing may not represent a meaningful business improvement if it adds substantial time to a complicated analysis.

That doesn’t mean printing is always better. It means we should evaluate the complete workflow rather than one isolated expense.

Technology Should Support the Way We Think

The best workplace isn’t necessarily the one that uses the least paper.

It is the one that allows employees to access information, understand it, make sound decisions, and complete their work efficiently.

Sometimes that means searching a digital repository.

Sometimes it means displaying two documents side by side.

And sometimes it means picking up a pen, highlighting a paragraph, and drawing a circle around something that doesn’t make sense.

Perhaps the future of the paperless office isn’t completely paperless after all.

Perhaps it is paper-smart.

A workplace where digital technology manages information, while people have the flexibility to choose the tools that help them think most effectively.

When Does Photoshop Become AI? Understanding the Line Between Editing and Generating

2026-10-07T16:08:54.127-07:00

I use Photoshop extensively in creating my artwork. I also use Lightroom, Topaz, a Wacom tablet, photography, and traditional artistic techniques. Recently, however, I encountered a question that sounds simple but turns out to be surprisingly complicated:

Do I use artificial intelligence in my artwork?

My first reaction was to think about obvious generative AI, the tools where you type a description and a computer creates an image. But when I started researching Photoshop, I discovered that the line between traditional digital editing, artificial intelligence, and generative artificial intelligence is much less clear.

In fact, many Photoshop tools that photographers and digital artists have used for years incorporate some form of artificial intelligence or machine learning.

AI Does Not Necessarily Mean AI-Generated

This was the most important distinction I discovered.

There are really three categories worth considering:

Traditional digital editing

These are familiar Photoshop techniques such as layers, masks, curves, levels, cropping, color adjustments, blending modes, transformations, brushes, cloning, dodging, and burning. The computer provides the tools, but the artist makes the decisions and manipulates the image.

[EXAMPLE: Screenshot of a Photoshop Layers panel showing multiple adjustment layers, masks, and blending layers.]

AI-assisted editing

Here Photoshop analyzes an image and helps perform a task. The software may recognize a person, determine where a sky begins and ends, find an object, repair an area, or make a sophisticated selection.

The computer is helping me accomplish something, but it is not necessarily inventing the artwork.

Generative AI

This is different. Generative AI can actually synthesize new visual information, creating pixels that were not present in the original photograph or artwork.

That distinction becomes very important when someone asks, “Was AI used to create this?”

Photoshop Has Been Using AI Longer Than Many of Us Realized

Consider Select Subject.

Instead of carefully tracing around a person or object, I can ask Photoshop to identify the subject automatically. Adobe describes this as an AI-powered feature using machine learning.

[EXAMPLE: Screenshot showing an original photograph beside the result after choosing Select > Subject, with the marching-ants selection visible.]

The artistic subject has not suddenly been created by AI. It was already in my photograph. AI simply helped Photoshop recognize its boundaries.

The same general principle applies to tools such as Object Selection and Remove Background.

[EXAMPLE: Screenshot of the Object Selection Tool identifying an object in one of my photographs.]

These are excellent examples of AI assisting the artist rather than replacing the artist.

Then Things Get More Complicated

Content-Aware Fill is particularly interesting.

Photographers have used content-aware technology for years. Suppose there is a distracting telephone pole, garbage can, tourist, electrical wire, or other unwanted element in a photograph. Photoshop can analyze surrounding pixels and construct replacement information.

[EXAMPLE: Before-and-after screenshot showing a distracting object removed with Content-Aware Fill.]

Is that artificial intelligence?

Adobe includes Content-Aware Fill among its AI-powered Photoshop capabilities.

But most people would probably view removing a trash can from a photograph quite differently from asking an AI image generator to create an entire Paris street scene.

Technically, both can involve artificial intelligence. Artistically, they represent very different processes.

Generative Fill Crosses Another Line

Photoshop’s Generative Fill makes the distinction much clearer.

I can select an area of an image and ask Photoshop to add something that was not originally there, replace an existing object, or create something that fits the surrounding scene.

[EXAMPLE: Screenshot showing the Generative Fill contextual taskbar and prompt field.]

For example, imagine that I photograph a rural Pennsylvania farm. I might traditionally adjust the color, paint into the image, crop it, remove an electrical wire, or enhance the atmosphere.

With Generative Fill, however, I could potentially select an empty field and request a horse.

Photoshop would create a horse that was not in my photograph.

[EXAMPLE: Before-and-after example showing an original photograph and a clearly labeled demonstration in which Generative Fill adds an object.]

That is no longer simply identifying or adjusting pixels that already exist. New visual content has been synthesized.

For purposes of describing an artistic process, I consider that generative AI.

Generative Expand Is Another Good Example

Suppose my photograph is horizontal but I need a taller composition.

Traditionally, I might crop differently, clone existing areas, paint additional background, or decide that the photograph simply will not work in that format.

Generative Expand gives me another possibility. Photoshop can extend the canvas and generate plausible visual information beyond the boundaries of my original photograph.

[EXAMPLE: Three screenshots showing the original image, expanded canvas, and final Generative Expand result.]

The original photograph may still constitute most of the finished artwork, but some portion of the scene was generated by AI.

That is something I think is reasonable to disclose.

Even the Remove Tool Has a Surprise

One of the most interesting things I discovered involves Photoshop’s Remove Tool.

Removing an unwanted object sounds like ordinary photo retouching. However, current versions of Photoshop can provide options controlling whether generative AI is used during removal.

Depending upon the setting, generative AI may be on, off, or Photoshop may automatically decide whether to use it.

[EXAMPLE: Screenshot of Photoshop’s Remove Tool options showing the Generative AI setting.]

That means an artist could potentially use generative AI without thinking of the operation as “generating an AI image.”

This illustrates why a simple yes-or-no question about AI does not always adequately describe a modern digital workflow.

Neural Filters Are AI Too

Photoshop’s Neural Filters provide another category.

These filters use machine learning for sophisticated image processing. Depending upon the filter, Photoshop can perform operations that would once have required considerable manual editing.

[EXAMPLE: Screenshot of the Neural Filters workspace showing available filters.]

Again, I think context matters.

Using machine learning to assist with an editing operation is not necessarily equivalent to asking an AI model to invent the subject, composition, lighting, and content of an artwork.

Both involve AI technology, but the artist’s role can be dramatically different.

My Working Definition

After researching this, I have developed a much more useful way of thinking about AI in my own artwork.

I divide the process into three categories:

Traditional digital tools: I manipulate the image.

AI-assisted tools: Photoshop analyzes the image and helps me manipulate it.

Generative AI tools: Photoshop synthesizes visual content that was not originally present.

[EXAMPLE: Graphic showing these three categories side by side: Traditional Digital Editing → AI-Assisted Editing → Generative AI.]

That distinction is much more meaningful to me than simply asking whether a computer program containing AI was involved.

What About the Artist?

There is another issue that gets lost in discussions about artificial intelligence: authorship involves much more than pixels.

I decide what interests me.

I take the photograph or develop the concept.

I choose the composition.

I determine what stays and what disappears.

I decide on color, texture, mood, and presentation.

I may paint digitally using my Wacom tablet. I may combine photographs. I may use Photoshop, Lightroom, or Topaz. I may work from photographs, sketches, imagined places, or combinations of them.

And, yes, I may sometimes incorporate AI-generated elements into a larger work.

[EXAMPLE: A complex Photoshop project with the Layers panel open, illustrating the number of individual components and artistic decisions involved.]

The finished image may therefore be the result of photography, digital painting, compositing, conventional image processing, AI-assisted tools, and sometimes generative technology.

Calling the entire result simply an “AI image” does not adequately describe that process.

Neither, in some circumstances, would saying that “no AI was used.”

Why Disclosure Matters

This became particularly relevant to me because galleries, exhibitions, and organizations increasingly ask artists about AI.

Those questions are legitimate. A gallery has every right to establish rules concerning what it will exhibit.

But artists also need terminology that accurately describes contemporary creative tools.

If I use Photoshop’s AI-powered Select Subject to isolate a person whom I photographed, that is fundamentally different from generating a fictional person.

If I remove a telephone wire using an intelligent editing tool, that is different from generating an entire landscape.

And if I use Generative Fill to create an object that was not present in my photograph, that should be distinguished from both.

[EXAMPLE: A three-panel visual using one photograph: original; AI-assisted selection/edit; generative addition.]

The Question Has Changed

Perhaps the question should not simply be:

“Did you use AI?”

Today, a better question may be:

“How was AI used?”

Was it used to make a selection?

Was it used to remove a distraction?

Was it used to enhance image quality?

Was it used to extend an existing photograph?

Was it used to generate one element?

Or was the entire underlying image generated from a prompt?

Those are very different creative processes.

For me, the goal is not to hide the technology I use. It is to describe it accurately.

Photography itself has always evolved with technology, from film emulsions and darkroom manipulation to digital sensors, Photoshop, computational photography, and now artificial intelligence.

The tools continue to change.

The more interesting question is what the artist chooses to do with them.

A Season of Possibilities: Planning My Phoenix Arts Calendar with ChatGPT

2026-10-06T20:56:12.297-07:00

It started with a screenshot of my Gammage tickets and a question: What else could I attend?

I already had my Broadway season lined up at ASU Gammage. But Phoenix offers so much more, and I wanted to explore the seasons at Phoenix Theatre, the Phoenix Symphony, Arizona Opera, and Herberger Theater Center. Could I add another subscription? Would individual tickets make more sense? And how would any of it fit around the commitments already on my calendar?

I could have figured it out myself. It would have meant opening websites, comparing production dates, finding individual performance times, reviewing ticket packages, and checking my calendar repeatedly. Then I would have needed to organize everything into something I could actually use.

Instead, I asked ChatGPT to help.

What followed was a surprisingly useful example of how AI can turn a collection of possibilities into a practical plan.

Starting with What I Already Had

My existing Gammage tickets became the starting point. Those performances were already purchased, with specific dates and times, so everything else needed to fit around them.

The first step was to compare the other organizations’ seasons with those fixed dates. That gave me a broad view of the possibilities: locally produced musicals, symphony concerts, opera, and Herberger performances.

But a production’s date range is only the beginning. Knowing that a musical runs for several weeks doesn’t tell me which performance I should attend.

The next step made the response much more valuable: checking my actual Google Calendar and selecting specific dates and times.

The Logic Was What Impressed Me

I was pleased with the options, but I was especially pleased with the reasoning behind them.

The plan considered the differences between organizations and their ticket packages. A fixed subscription might work well for one season, while a flexible package or individual tickets could be a better choice for another.

It also considered the demands on my time. My calendar includes family activities, photography events, camera club meetings, gallery receptions, artwork deliveries, and other commitments. An empty space between two appointments doesn’t always mean I can comfortably attend a performance there.

Allowing time to arrive, park, and get settled mattered.

One particularly useful example involved Gershwin to Garland at Herberger. The evening performance conflicted with my camera club meeting. The afternoon performance offered a way to enjoy the concert while keeping the evening commitment.

Another involved the Phoenix Symphony’s Paul Simon concert and Arizona Opera’s The Pirates of Penzance. Their Sunday performances competed for the same afternoon. Choosing Paul Simon on Saturday evening meant I could potentially attend both.

Those are the kinds of details that take time to uncover when you are doing the research yourself.

My Calendar Needed Some Interpretation

There was also a reminder that a calendar cannot explain everything about a person’s life.

Mine includes recurring soccer, swim, and gymnastics practices for my granddaughters. Those entries were initially treated as scheduling conflicts. I clarified that I don’t regularly attend the practices, so they could be ignored when planning my theatre outings.

That distinction matters. I want to know about the girls’ activities, but having something on my calendar does not necessarily mean I will be there.

Games, meets, tournaments, and other family commitments still deserve consideration. Regular practices don’t need to rule out a performance.

The exchange helped refine the plan around how I actually use my calendar.

Checking the Details Changed the Recommendation

The research also caught an error in the earlier description of Phoenix Theatre’s Big Six package.

The actual package includes SUFFS, Mary Poppins, Unlock’d, Sweeney Todd, In the Heights, and Legally Blonde. Spamalot and Kimberly Akimbo would require additional tickets or an eligible exchange.

I appreciated that correction. It made the recommendation more useful because it connected the shows I might want to see with what the package actually provides.

The response also identified a few dates that could not confidently be called clear. An uncertain birthday-event entry and a trip shown on a shared calendar needed qualification. Rather than presenting every option as equally workable, the plan explained where more context was needed.

From Research to Something I Could Use

By the end, I had specific performance choices organized by venue, along with explanations for the selections and the remaining questions.

I could see where a subscription might be worthwhile, where individual tickets would give me more freedom, and where a different performance time solved a conflict.

Nothing had been purchased or added to my calendar. I still had the opportunity to decide how much of this season I wanted to take on.

And that is important. I enjoy theatre, music, photography, and making art. I want a calendar that gives me things to look forward to while leaving room for the rest of my life.

The Time Saved Was Remarkable

This work came together in a very short amount of time compared with what it would have taken me to research and organize it on my own.

The benefit went beyond gathering information. ChatGPT compared the options, applied scheduling logic, checked the details, and explained its choices in a way I could review.

I was very pleased with the response. It gave me a clear path through a season full of possibilities—and let me spend more time imagining the performances I might enjoy than sorting through the calendars needed to get there.

Through Each Other’s Eyes: An Afternoon About Photography, Storytelling, and Finding Your Own Voice

2026-10-04T15:10:42.923-07:00

Yesterday I attended Through Each Other’s Eyes: Behind the Lens at Western Spirit: Scottsdale’s Museum of the West. A photography friend Don H. also attended and I also had a chance to sit down and talk to Kim G. I had a chance to revisit with Kerrick James and Richard Jackson. I went expecting an interesting photography seminar. I came away thinking about something much larger: what it actually means to become an artist with a camera.

The setting itself seemed appropriate. Before the program even began, I found myself photographing the Western Spirit Museum—the rust-colored metal architecture against an intensely blue Arizona sky, Western sculptures tucked into the landscape, patterns etched into the concrete, and long geometric shadows stretching across the walkways.

It was one of those places where architecture, sculpture, light, and landscape seem designed to make a photographer slow down and look.

Three Photographers, Three Very Different Paths

The seminar brought together photographers Scott Baxter, Joel Grimes, and Jeff Kida. What made the conversation particularly valuable was that they did not represent one prescribed way of being a photographer.

Their careers and approaches are different, yet several common ideas kept emerging.

One was the importance of reinvention.

A photography career—or an artistic life—isn’t necessarily a straight line. Styles change. Technology changes. Clients change. More importantly, photographers themselves change.

There can be a point when simply making technically good photographs is no longer enough. You begin asking different questions:

What am I trying to say?

Why am I photographing this?

What makes this image mine?

That distinction between photographer and artist stayed with me.

The Long Story Matters

Another idea that resonated with me was the value of committing to a subject over time.

Some photographs are discoveries. You encounter something wonderful, recognize the opportunity, and make the picture.

But a body of work is different.

You return.

You research.

You photograph again.

You begin noticing things you didn’t see the first time.

Eventually, the individual photographs stop being isolated images and begin speaking to one another. Together they become a story.

That idea feels especially relevant to the work I am creating now. I have been thinking increasingly in terms of series rather than individual photographs—images connected by place, memory, history, or experience.

A single photograph can be beautiful.

A collection can say something.

The Discipline Behind the Photograph

There was also an important reminder that photography isn’t only about inspiration.

Long-term documentary work requires patience and discipline. Editorial photography requires the ability to understand a place and determine which details actually communicate its character. Fine-art photography requires making decisions that go beyond simply recording what was in front of the camera.

All of those approaches require intention.

That may have been one of my biggest takeaways from the afternoon:

Don’t just photograph what something looks like. Decide what you want the viewer to understand or feel about it.

That changes everything.

And Then There Was the Light

Walking around Western Spirit reinforced the lesson.

I photographed the obvious subjects—the Western sculptures and the architecture—but I was equally interested in things that might easily have been overlooked.

The relationship between weathered steel and desert vegetation.

And especially the shadows.

At one point, the structural columns cast enormous diagonal shadows across the walkway. Nothing dramatic was happening there. No grand Western landscape. No elaborate subject.

Just sunlight, architecture, and concrete.

Yet it may have been one of the most photographic scenes I encountered.

It was a good reminder that seeing is often more important than searching.

A Question I’m Taking Home

Photography seminars can easily become discussions about cameras, lenses, lighting equipment, software, and technique. Those things matter, of course.

But this conversation went somewhere more interesting.

It made me think about voice.

After years of taking photographs, what subjects do I repeatedly return to? What stories am I uniquely positioned to tell? Which images belong together? And when does a collection of photographs become something more—a coherent body of artwork?

Those questions are particularly meaningful to me right now as I continue exploring photography alongside painterly image-making and creating work for exhibitions.

I don’t think an artist necessarily wakes up one morning having “found” a style.

I think you recognize it gradually.

You make photographs.

You experiment.

You revisit old work.

You notice what keeps pulling you back.

And eventually, you realize there has been a thread running through the work all along.

Through Each Other’s Eyes

The title of the program turned out to be wonderfully appropriate.

We may stand in the same place, photograph the same landscape, or even point our cameras toward the same subject—but we don’t necessarily make the same photograph.

We bring our histories with us.

Our curiosity.

Our experiences.

Our memories.

Our sense of beauty.

And our own way of seeing.

That is probably what I appreciated most about spending an afternoon listening to three accomplished photographers talk about their work.

I didn’t leave wanting to photograph like any of them.

I left wanting to understand more clearly how I photograph like me.

Through Each Other's Eyes website

Seminar Price $75 and includes access to the museum. light breakfast and lunch.

Joel Grimes website

Scott Baxter website

Jeff Kida website

#Photography #ThroughEachOthersEyes #WesternSpirit #Scottsdale #ArizonaPhotography #PhotographyArt #VisualStorytelling #PhotographicVoice #BehindTheLens #PhotographyJourney

The End of the Luggage Saga: Karen’s Bag Is Home! 🧳🎉

2026-09-29T17:10:00.000-07:00

After Warsaw, Paris, the Dordogne, a château, missed connections, shipping labels, customs questions, UPS, Luggage Forward, and weeks of wondering where it would end up, Karen’s wandering suitcase has finally completed its journey.

It made it home to Rhode Island! 🎉🎉🎉

For anyone who has been following this story, this suitcase has had quite an adventure. It was supposed to accompany Karen on our trip through France. Instead, it took a European vacation largely on its own—and missed the part of the trip when Karen actually needed everything packed inside it.

Getting it home became a group effort. There were messages back and forth with Beth, arrangements at Château Marouatte, shipping labels to coordinate, international shipping requirements to decipher, and finally a scheduled pickup through Luggage Forward.

Then came the message we had all been waiting for:

“Hi all, my bag has made it home!!!”

Of course, Beth immediately supplied the perfect response:

“That’s wonderful news!!! Do you even remember what was in it?” 😂

Karen did remember—mostly. But unpacking brought a bittersweet moment. Seeing everything inside reminded her how much easier the trip would have been if the suitcase had actually been traveling with her rather than pursuing its own European itinerary.

Still, there is something wonderfully satisfying about finally being able to say:

Warsaw ✔️
Paris ✔️
Dordogne ✔️
Château Marouatte ✔️
Rhode Island ✔️
HOME! ✔️

And so ends the saga of Karen’s suitcase—probably the most well-traveled piece of luggage in our group.

It arrived late. Very late. It took the scenic route. It caused plenty of frustration. It gave all of us a story we certainly weren’t expecting.

But in the end, Karen and her suitcase are finally reunited.

THE END. ❤️🧳

Although after everything this suitcase has been through, I think it deserves to keep those Warsaw, Paris, Dordogne and USA travel stickers forever.

Note from Karen on 10/19 - Just wanted to let everyone know that SAS just paid the $234 that I paid to get my bag home!!!

#KarensLuggageSaga #HomeAtLast #LostLuggage #TravelAdventures #France2026 #Dordogne #ChateauMarouatte #RhodeIsland #TravelStories #TheEnd

Walking Through the Belly of Paris: The Lost Market of Les Halles

2026-09-24T21:12:26.301-07:00

When I walked through Les Halles on this trip to Paris, I knew this part of the city had once been famous for its market. What I hadn’t fully appreciated was the enormous scale of what used to stand here.

Then: Before Paris Woke
Before dawn, Les Halles was already roaring to life. Porters shouldered crates of vegetables, vendors arranged mountains of produce, and horse-drawn carts once crowded streets slick from the night's work. Restaurant cooks arrived while late-night diners were still heading home. For centuries, this was Paris's great food market—the “Belly of Paris”—feeding a city that seemed endlessly hungry. By sunrise, bargaining voices, rattling carts, footsteps, and the smells of fruit, fish, flowers, cheese, and coffee filled the neighborhood. Long before today's gardens and shopping complex, Les Halles woke while the rest of Paris slept.

I wasn’t simply walking near the old market.

I was walking through it.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: A present-day photograph of my walk through Les Halles with an archival image showing the same general area filled with market pavilions.]

The streets around Saint-Eustache, the present-day Forum des Halles and the Fountain of the Innocents once belonged to an extraordinary world of iron-and-glass pavilions, food merchants, horse-drawn carts, delivery trucks and men carrying enormous baskets and crates through the streets.

Then: The Daily Rhythm of Les Halles
Long before sunrise, deliveries rolled into Les Halles from farms and villages beyond Paris. Merchants unpacked crates beneath the market pavilions while porters hurried through the surrounding streets carrying produce, meat, fish, cheese, and flowers. By morning, the neighborhood was a chorus of bargaining voices, clattering carts, and shouted orders. The air carried competing aromas—fresh bread and coffee mingling with ripe fruit, vegetables, fish, and damp pavement. As shoppers arrived, yesterday's deliveries became today's meals. Les Halles wasn't simply a market; it was the daily heartbeat of Paris.

For centuries, this was where Paris came to eat.

A Market Nearly 900 Years Old

The history of Les Halles stretches back to 1137, when King Louis VI established a market in this area. At the time, this wasn’t the center of Paris we recognize today. The city was much smaller, and the market stood near its outskirts.

Then: When Les Halles Stood at the Edge of Paris
Imagine Les Halles in the Middle Ages, when the market stood near the edge of a much smaller Paris. Merchants arrived with carts carrying grain, vegetables, meat, cloth, and other necessities, gathering beneath simple covered stalls. The streets were narrow, muddy, noisy, and crowded with shoppers, animals, and vendors calling out their goods. As Paris expanded, houses, workshops, churches, and streets gradually surrounded the marketplace. What began near the city's outskirts became its commercial heart—Paris quite literally grew up around Les Halles.

Over the centuries Paris grew around it.

So did the market.

By the nineteenth century, Les Halles had become the great food-distribution center of Paris. Meat, fish, poultry, vegetables, fruit, cheese and other provisions arrived here before being distributed to shops, restaurants and households throughout the city.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: A historical map beside a present-day map showing how completely the city has grown around the former market site.]

But the old market buildings could no longer handle the volume.

Paris needed something new.

And what Paris built was magnificent.

The Pavilions of Victor Baltard

Beginning in the 1850s, architect Victor Baltard created a series of enormous iron-and-glass market pavilions at Les Halles.

Then: When Iron and Glass Came to Les Halles
In the 1850s, architect Victor Baltard began transforming Les Halles with something startlingly modern: great pavilions of iron and glass. Instead of heavy stone walls, slender metal columns supported soaring roofs and vast windows flooded the market with light. To Parisians accustomed to traditional masonry, the structures must have seemed almost industrial. Yet the airy pavilions proved perfectly suited to the enormous market beneath them. Soon, Baltard's design became inseparable from Les Halles itself—a bold symbol of a Paris being rebuilt for the modern age.

They were strikingly modern for their time.

Instead of massive stone buildings with dark interiors, Baltard designed soaring structures supported by slender iron columns. Glass admitted daylight. Ventilation helped move air through buildings filled with food, people and animals.

Eventually, the complex consisted of a series of interconnected pavilions and covered passageways.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: An archival photograph of the Baltard pavilions beside a present-day photograph taken in the same area, showing what occupies the site now.]

Looking at old photographs, the architecture almost resembles a collection of Victorian railway stations.

But instead of trains, the buildings were filled with food.

Mountains of vegetables.

Crates of fruit.

Fish spread across market counters.

Poultry hanging from stalls.

Cuts of meat.

Cheeses.

Flowers.

Baskets and barrels stacked everywhere.

And thousands of people moving among them.

Then: Inside the Belly of Paris
Step inside the old Les Halles pavilions and imagine the assault on the senses: porters shouting, carts rattling, merchants bargaining, and shoppers squeezing between overflowing stalls. Great heaps of vegetables glistened beside fruit, cheeses, flowers, fish, and freshly butchered meat. The air mixed the sweetness of produce with coffee, damp pavement, seafood, and humanity. Émile Zola famously captured this abundance in The Belly of Paris, portraying Les Halles almost as a living creature—noisy, colorful, crowded, and constantly hungry, feeding Paris from the middle of the night until morning.

Paris While Paris Slept

One of the most fascinating things about Les Halles is that much of this world came alive while the rest of Paris was sleeping.

Then: Before Dawn at Les Halles
Imagine arriving at Les Halles at three in the morning. Paris is dark, but the market is wide awake. I follow the porters through streets crowded with carts and crates, their voices echoing beneath the iron pavilions. Fish glistens on beds of ice; vegetables rise in colorful heaps; the smells of onions, coffee, damp stone, and fresh bread mingle in the cold air. Workers pause at nearby cafés for something hot before returning to the rush. Here, morning does not begin with sunrise. Les Halles has already been working for hours.

During the night and very early morning, food arrived from across France.

Wholesalers negotiated purchases. Merchants selected goods for their shops. Restaurant owners came looking for ingredients. Carts and, later, trucks crowded the surrounding streets.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: Archival images of carts and delivery trucks around Les Halles compared with 2026 streets and pedestrians.]

And everywhere were the market workers.

Among the most famous were the forts des Halles, the remarkably strong porters who transported huge loads through the market.

Historic photographs show men carrying enormous baskets and stacks of goods that seem almost impossibly heavy.

Then: The Strongmen of Les Halles
Among the most recognizable workers at Les Halles were the forts des Halles, men renowned for extraordinary strength. Wearing their distinctive work clothes and broad leather shoulder protectors, they carried enormous loads of meat, produce, and other goods through the crowded market. Their work began while most of Paris slept and demanded stamina as much as muscle. The forts became neighborhood celebrities, admired for their toughness, camaraderie, and pride in their profession. In the chaos of carts, merchants, and overflowing stalls, they were the human machinery that kept the Belly of Paris moving.

This was not the picturesque farmers’ market we might imagine today.

Les Halles was an enormous working machine.

It fed Paris.

The Belly of Paris

Writer Émile Zola understood this better than almost anyone.

In 1873 he published a novel set in Les Halles called Le Ventre de Paris. The English translation can be found here: The Belly of Paris.

The Belly of Paris.

Then: Zola’s “Belly of Paris”
Émile Zola transformed Les Halles into a character of its own in his 1873 novel The Belly of Paris. He portrayed the market as overflowing with abundance—great displays of cheeses, vegetables, fish, meats, and flowers—while beneath that plenty simmered rivalry, poverty, gossip, and political tension. His Les Halles was beautiful and excessive, nourishing Paris while exposing its social divisions. Through Zola’s eyes, the market became more than a place to buy food. It was the enormous, restless stomach of Paris, consuming, feeding, and revealing the city around it.

It may be the perfect name for the place.

Food flowed into Les Halles from farms, fisheries and producers throughout France. It was sorted, bought and sold here, and then flowed outward again into the restaurants, shops and kitchens of Paris.

The market wasn’t simply located in Paris.

It functioned almost like one of the city’s organs.

And surrounding that organ was an entire culture.

Workers finishing long overnight shifts needed something substantial to eat. Restaurants and cafés stayed open to serve them.

Then: Onion Soup at Dawn
As the market night ended, the cafés around Les Halles filled with an unusual mixture of customers: porters finishing work, merchants taking a break, night owls heading home, and early risers beginning their day. One of the neighborhood’s celebrated traditions was a steaming bowl of French onion soup, rich with broth, onions, bread, and melted cheese. At dawn, it was less an appetizer than restoration—a hot, filling meal after hours spent in the cold market. While most of Paris was waking for breakfast, Les Halles was sitting down to soup.

That history also gives another Paris tradition a wonderful context: French onion soup became closely associated with the Les Halles district and its late-night clientele.

I had French onion soup during my own visit to this neighborhood.

I didn’t realize at the time how appropriate that was.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: My soup meal at Au Pied de Cochon with an archival image of a Les Halles soup seller.]

Imagine Standing at Saint-Eustache

This is the part that changed the way I think about my photographs from this trip.

Saint-Eustache is one of my favorite churches in Paris. I walked around it, photographed it and explored the surrounding streets.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: This is one of the strongest places for a direct then/now image pair. Use your photograph of Saint-Eustache beside an archival photograph showing the church surrounded by the market pavilions.]

But imagine standing there 100 years ago.

Instead of today’s open spaces and modern buildings, the enormous Baltard market pavilions would have been immediately beside the church.

There would have been vendors shouting.

Porters pushing and carrying loads.

Horse carts rattling across the streets.

Crates being opened.

Restaurants serving market workers.

Fish, vegetables, flowers and meat arriving continuously.

The air itself must have been a mixture of food, horses, smoke, wet pavement and humanity.

Then: In the Shadow of Saint-Eustache
Before dawn, the bells of Saint-Eustache sounded above a neighborhood already awake. Beneath the church’s great Gothic walls, carts crowded the streets and porters hurried toward Les Halles with baskets and crates. Merchants shouted prices while café doors opened to workers seeking coffee, wine, or a hot meal. The air carried the smells of vegetables, fish, bread, damp stone, and horses. Imagine standing beside Saint-Eustache as daylight slowly revealed the market: a magnificent church overlooking the noisy, untidy, endlessly energetic heart of Paris.

Saint-Eustache wasn’t simply a church near Les Halles.

It stood beside the beating heart of the market.

Then Paris Changed

By the twentieth century, Les Halles had a serious problem.

Paris had grown enormously.

The food-distribution system had grown with it.

Horse carts had given way to trucks, and those trucks had to navigate streets that had never been designed for modern commercial traffic. Congestion became increasingly difficult. The historic market simply didn’t have enough room to operate efficiently.

Then: When the Market Outgrew Paris
By the mid-20th century, Les Halles had become a victim of its own success. Each night, trucks packed the narrow surrounding streets, competing with delivery carts, porters, merchants, and pedestrians for space. Engines rumbled, horns sounded, crates piled along sidewalks, and traffic sometimes slowed to a crawl. The historic market built to feed Paris was now struggling inside a city transformed by automobiles and modern distribution. Les Halles still worked through the night, but moving mountains of food through the crowded center of Paris had become an enormous logistical puzzle.

Eventually, the decision was made to move the wholesale food market out of central Paris.

In 1969, the great migration to the enormous new wholesale market at Rungis, near Orly, began.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: Compare an archival photograph of the final days at Les Halles with a present-day photograph of Rungis or the modern Les Halles transportation and commercial complex.]

After more than eight centuries, the great food market of central Paris was leaving Les Halles.

But what happened next remains the most painful part of the story for many people who loved old Paris.

They Tore It Down

Beginning in 1971, most of Baltard’s beautiful iron-and-glass pavilions were demolished.

Then: The Loss of Baltard’s Pavilions
When demolition of Baltard’s iron-and-glass pavilions began in 1971, many Parisians were horrified. Preservationists, architects, and journalists protested the destruction of buildings that had become symbols of 19th-century Paris. Campaigns tried to save them, but most were dismantled as the wholesale market moved to Rungis. One pavilion escaped: it was relocated and reconstructed in Nogent-sur-Marne. For many, the demolition was more than the loss of a market—it was the disappearance of a beloved piece of Parisian memory.

Looking at photographs of their destruction today is astonishing.

Buildings that had defined this part of Paris for generations were dismantled and torn apart.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: A sequence of three images: the intact pavilions, the demolition, and the present-day site. This creates a powerful visual progression from then to disappearance to now.]

One pavilion was saved and eventually reconstructed at Nogent-sur-Marne.

Most were not.

Then: The Pavilion That Survived
As Baltard’s Les Halles pavilions disappeared in the 1970s, one escaped destruction. Pavilion No. 8 was dismantled piece by piece, its iron framework preserved like an enormous architectural puzzle. It was transported to Nogent-sur-Marne, east of Paris, and reconstructed there, reopening in 1977 as the Pavillon Baltard. Instead of market stalls, the soaring iron-and-glass structure now hosts concerts, exhibitions, and events. Its survival offers a remarkable glimpse of what once dominated central Paris—a fragment of the old “Belly of Paris” given an unexpected second life.

In their place appeared an enormous excavation in the middle of Paris.

Parisians gave it a wonderfully direct nickname:

Le Trou des Halles.

The Hole of Les Halles.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: Pair an archival photograph of Le Trou des Halles with a present-day photograph of the Forum des Halles or La Canopée from a similar viewpoint.]

Eventually the site became an important underground transportation hub and the Forum des Halles. More recently, another dramatic transformation produced the enormous modern canopy known as La Canopée.

And once again, thousands of people pass through Les Halles every day.

They shop.

They eat.

They catch trains.

They meet friends.

[THEN/NOW COMPARISON: Here is a wide present-day photograph of La Canopée and the Forum des Halles. Below are views of the Chatelet-Les Halles RER and Metro Connection, the Escalators to The Forum, and the underground stores at Forum des Halles.]

Most probably give little thought to the mountains of vegetables, sides of meat, baskets of fish and exhausted market workers that once occupied the same ground.

Walking Through the Ghost Market

Now I look differently at the photographs I made during my walk.

I walked past Saint-Eustache.

I wandered through Les Halles.

I stopped at the Fountain of the Innocents.

I ate nearby.

I explored streets that felt completely contemporary.

But underneath modern Paris was another Paris.

If I could somehow turn the clock backward while standing there, modern buildings would disappear and Baltard’s great iron pavilions would rise around me.

The quiet streets of morning would fill with carts.

The market stalls would appear.

The porters would return.

The cafés would fill with workers finishing their night.

The Last Morning at Les Halles
Imagine a porter finishing his final shift at the old market. For years, his working day had begun while Paris slept—lifting crates, calling greetings across crowded aisles, and stopping for coffee as dawn reached Saint-Eustache. Then the market moved away, and the familiar rhythm ended. The merchants, café workers, drivers, and strongmen scattered to new routines. Buildings can be demolished and markets relocated, but for the people who worked there night after night, Les Halles was not simply a place. It was a community, a livelihood, and a way of life.

And suddenly I would be standing inside the Belly of Paris.

That is one of the things I love most about walking through this city.

Paris rarely has just one story.

Sometimes the most interesting city is the one that is no longer there.

Note to self: Plan to see this next time...

Pavillon Baltard Today — Nogent-sur-Marne
One of Victor Baltard’s original Les Halles pavilions survived demolition. Pavilion No. 8 was dismantled, moved to Nogent-sur-Marne, and reconstructed, where it remains today as an exhibition, concert, and event venue.

Official Pavillon Baltard photo gallery

#Paris #LesHalles #OldParis #ParisHistory #VictorBaltard #LeVentreDeParis #SaintEustache #ParisPhotography #HistoricParis #FranceTravel

The Name on the Bracelet: A Small Piece of Metal and a Six-Year Story of Captivity

2026-09-23T08:47:58.691-07:00

The Name on the Bracelet: A Small Piece of Metal and a Six-Year Story of Captivity

I have had this bracelet for decades.

It is simple: a curved silver-colored band, scratched and worn with age. There is no decoration and almost no explanation. Just a man’s name, his rank and a date:

MAJ. CHARLES E. GREENE JR.
3-11-67,

For decades, bracelets like this have survived in jewelry boxes, dresser drawers, old military collections and family keepsake boxes. They can look almost insignificant until you stop and ask the obvious question:

Who was the person whose name was placed on the bracelet?

I finally asked that question about mine.

And what I discovered transformed this little piece of metal into something very different.

A bracelet born during a divided America.

To understand my bracelet, you have to go back to 1970.

America was deeply divided over the Vietnam War. Protests filled college campuses. Families watched casualty reports on television. At the same time, another issue was becoming increasingly visible: American servicemen who had been captured or were missing in Southeast Asia.

Two college students, Carol Bates Brown and Kay Hunter, wanted to do something for those men without becoming part of the political battle surrounding the war.

They were involved with a California student organization called Voices in Vital America — VIVA.

The idea they developed was remarkably simple.

Make a metal bracelet.

Put the name of one POW or missing serviceman on it.

Add his rank and the date he disappeared.

Then ask an American to wear it.

According to Brown’s history of the project, the first sample bracelets were made by a small Santa Monica shop that normally engraved silver used to decorate horses. VIVA initially didn’t even have enough money to manufacture them in quantity. Eventually, enough brass and copper were donated to make the first 1,200.

The official bracelet campaign began on Veterans Day, November 11, 1970.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Americans wanted them.

Lots of them.

At the height of the program, VIVA was receiving more than 12,000 requests a day. Contemporary reporting in 1972 estimated that approximately four million bracelets were already being worn. Historical accounts put VIVA’s eventual distribution at nearly five million.

People on very different sides of the Vietnam debate wore them. The bracelet wasn’t necessarily a declaration about whether the war itself was right or wrong.

It said something much simpler:

There is a person behind this name. Don’t forget him.

You didn’t choose a symbol. You carried a person.

Each bracelet bore an individual name.

That was what made the idea so powerful.

Instead of thinking about thousands of POWs and missing servicemen as statistics, someone might look down at a wrist and see one name.

The Smithsonian explains that the tradition was to wear the bracelet until that serviceman returned to the United States. The bracelet could then be presented to the returning POW.

Imagine putting one on in 1971.

There was no Internet.

There were no searchable POW databases.

You couldn’t type the man’s name into Google and discover what had happened.

You simply wore his name.

And waited.

My bracelet

When I turned my bracelet over, I discovered something particularly important.

Stamped into the inside is one small word that I never noticed:

VIVA

That stamp helps establish what this bracelet is.

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund has cataloged original POW/MIA bracelets preserved in the National Park Service collection. Those examples have the serviceman’s information engraved on the outside and VIVA stamped into the inside surface. The Fund specifically identifies that stamp as indicating that the bracelet was created and distributed by Voices in Vital America and is among the original VIVA-produced bracelets.

Mine has that same VIVA mark.

Its construction, engraving and appearance are also consistent with documented Vietnam-era VIVA bracelets.

So, while a photograph alone cannot provide the kind of absolute authentication that a museum conservator could make after physically examining an artifact, the evidence is compelling:

My bracelet appears to be an original VIVA POW bracelet from the Vietnam era.

And the man named on it was real.

His name was Charles Edward Greene Jr.

March 11, 1967.

Charles Greene was a United States Air Force fighter pilot.

He was a captain assigned to the 333rd Tactical Fighter Squadron and flew the formidable Republic F-105 Thunderchief, better known among its pilots as the “Thud.”

On March 11, 1967, Greene was flying a combat mission over North Vietnam.

It was the exact date that would eventually be engraved on my bracelet.

His flight was operating against the heavily defended Thai Nguyen area. According to his Silver Star citation, Greene was flying number four in the mission commander’s flight and was wingman to the deputy mission commander. Under intense enemy defenses, he repeatedly attacked an antiaircraft position and warned the other aircraft about antiaircraft fire and surface-to-air missiles.

Then Greene’s F-105 went down.

He ejected.

He survived.

And he was captured.

The Maine Military Museum’s POW record gives the dates with stark simplicity:

Captured: March 11, 1967.
Released: March 4, 1973.

The date on my bracelet wasn’t the date Charles Greene died.

It was the date his captivity began.

Six years.

Think about what six years represents.

Six birthdays.

Six Christmases.

Six springs.

A child entering kindergarten could be approaching middle school by the time six years had passed.

Greene spent almost that entire span as a prisoner in North Vietnam.

And only five days after his capture, on March 16, 1967, another chapter of his story began.

Records associated with Greene’s military decorations describe severe physical and psychological pressure intended to force cooperation from him. He resisted his captors’ demands and continued doing so through years of imprisonment. His conduct in captivity contributed to an extraordinary military record that ultimately included two Silver Stars, along with other decorations.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Americans were eventually walking around with his name on their wrists.

One of those bracelets is now in my hand.

Then came 1973.

In January 1973, the Paris Peace Accords were signed.

American POWs began coming home.

Charles Greene was among them.

He was released on March 4, 1973, only days short of the sixth anniversary of his capture.

By then, the captain who had been shot down in 1967 was Major Charles E. Greene Jr.

That helps explain another detail on my bracelet.

It says:

MAJ. CHARLES E. GREENE JR.

His promotion occurred during those missing years. The rank on the bracelet therefore provides an intriguing clue to when this particular bracelet may have been produced, although it isn’t enough by itself to establish a precise manufacturing date.

Then, on March 9, 1973, came the moment captured in the photographs I plan to place beside the pictures of my bracelet.

He came home.

Greene arrived at Westover Air Force Base in Massachusetts aboard a C-9 Nightingale.

Waiting for him were his wife, Sandra, and their 10-year-old daughter, Kim.

The surviving photographs are wonderful.

One shows Greene holding his daughter.

Another shows him with his wife.

Others capture the crowd that had gathered for his return.

The Times Union archive records that Greene continued kissing his wife and daughter and wiping away tears as they rode toward the base hospital. His parents, brothers and other relatives were also there.

There were signs in the crowd welcoming Major Greene back to freedom.

And consider Kim.

She was 10 when her father returned.

She had been only about four years old when he was shot down.

Her father had missed much of her childhood.

Then suddenly, after nearly six years, Dad was coming home.

The bracelet suddenly means something different.

When I first looked at the bracelet, I saw an old piece of metal.

Now I see a timeline.

March 11, 1967: Charles Greene is shot down and captured.

1970: VIVA launches the POW/MIA bracelet campaign.

Early 1970s: Somewhere in America, a bracelet bearing Greene’s name is produced and someone wears his name on their wrist.

March 4, 1973: Greene is released.

March 9, 1973: A photographer captures him embracing his family.

And more than half a century later, I am holding one of those bracelets.

The scratches don’t bother me anymore.

In fact, I like them.

I originally wore this particular bracelet. I lived in Pennsylvania, I likely acquired it with the help of my parents or don’t recall the news in 1973 and if I learned that my POW had finally come home.

Those are mysteries the bracelet still keeps.

But I handled it. I kept it. And eventually it surfaced from my jewelry box and I pulled it out to wear again.

Why I am not going to polish it.

My first instinct with an old metal object might normally be to make it shine.

Not this one.

The scratches, oxidation, discoloration and wear are part of the object’s history. Aggressive polishing could remove original surface material and evidence of age.

So I am treating it as a small historical artifact rather than a piece of jewelry.

For anyone fortunate enough to have an original POW bracelet, I would follow a few basic conservation principles:

Don’t use metal polish, abrasive cleaners or polishing compounds. Don’t try to buff out the scratches.
Handle it with clean, dry hands, preferably by the edges, and avoid unnecessary flexing. Repeatedly opening and closing an old metal cuff can eventually fatigue the metal.
If loose dust needs to be removed, use a very soft, dry brush or microfiber cloth, without aggressively rubbing the surface.
Don’t try to remove the discoloration or patina. Age is not dirt.
Keep the bracelet dry and away from high humidity, direct sunlight and large temperature fluctuations.
For long-term storage, place it in an acid-free archival box or inert archival-quality enclosure, rather than directly against ordinary cardboard, newspaper, rubber, PVC plastic or adhesive material.
Keep photographs and documentation about the bracelet with it, but preferably in separate archival sleeves so the materials aren’t resting directly against the metal.

Most importantly, I would photograph the bracelet carefully now—front, back, both ends and especially that tiny VIVA stamp.

Because provenance is part of preservation.

CHARLES E. GREENE JR. — 3-11-67.

There is something wonderfully human about the POW bracelet campaign.

The organizers didn’t ask Americans to remember an abstract cause.

They gave them a name.

One name.

For me, that name was Charles Greene.

I put his bracelet around my wrist without knowing whether the story would end with a funeral, an unresolved disappearance or a homecoming.

Fortunately, we know how Charles Greene’s story ended.

Almost six years after his F-105 disappeared over North Vietnam, an airplane landed in Massachusetts.

A 10-year-old girl waited near the ramp.

And Charles Greene came home.

More than fifty years later, his name is still here.

It’s scratched into a little silver-colored bracelet sitting in my hand.

And that was the whole point.

Not to forget.

Hunting Aliens in Paris: Discovering the Street Art of Mr Djoul

2026-09-22T12:15:00.000-07:00

Hunting Aliens in Paris: Discovering the Street Art of Mr Djoul

Once you start looking for mosaic street art in Paris, something happens: you can’t stop looking up.

A blank wall is no longer just a blank wall. A corner above a street sign deserves inspection. So does the space over a doorway, beside a drainpipe or several feet above your head.

And every once in a while, an alien is staring back at you.

Meet Mr Djoul, a French mosaic street artist whose little extraterrestrials have become his signature. His work belongs to the broader Paris tradition of pixel-inspired mosaic street art, and sources tracing his work report that he began creating urban pixel art around 2016. More than 1,000 works had already been documented by early 2022, with pieces appearing in France and elsewhere in Europe.

That sounds like the beginning of another Paris scavenger hunt to me.

First, Learn to Recognize the Alien

Mr Djoul’s mosaics can initially be confused with the work of Invader, especially if you are simply scanning buildings for little pixelated creatures.

But look more carefully.

Mr Djoul has developed his own recurring extraterrestrial character, usually with large distinctive eyes. One guide to Paris pixel art notes that, unlike Invader’s constantly changing creatures, Mr Djoul repeatedly returns to a characteristic alien form.

That gives us our first scavenger-hunt clue:

Look for the eyes.

Once you recognize them, you start seeing Mr Djoul’s aliens in all sorts of situations.

Stop 1: Two Aliens Shake Hands

📍 7 Rue du Bourg Tibourg, 4th arrondissement

This is a particularly fun one.

Two aliens, one dark and one white, face each other and shake hands. Behind them is a rainbow-like arrangement of red, yellow, green, blue and violet tiles.

The piece was documented here in January 2023.

There is something wonderfully cheerful about it. These aren’t frightening extraterrestrials arriving to conquer Earth. They look as though they have just met on a Paris street and decided to become friends.

And perhaps that is the perfect introduction to Mr Djoul.

Scavenger-hunt challenge: Find both aliens and photograph yourself returning their greeting.

Stop 2: The Pink Alien in the Marais

📍 2 Rue des Hospitalières Saint-Gervais, 4th arrondissement

Here’s another little creature to hunt.

A pale pink alien with green eyes has been installed against a wall covered with tiny blue tiles. The piece was photographed at this location in June 2025.

This is exactly the sort of street art that can disappear into its surroundings if you aren’t paying attention.

The alien isn’t enormous.

It isn’t demanding your attention.

It is simply there, waiting for somebody to notice it.

And now that we know what we’re looking for, we’re going to notice it.

Stop 3: The Rainbow Alien

📍 Corner of Rue des Lombards and Rue Saint-Martin, 4th arrondissement

Now search for a rainbow.

This little alien head is surrounded by bands of red, yellow, green and blue tiles and tucked onto the corner of a building beneath a traditional Parisian street lamp.

I love the juxtaposition: an old-fashioned Paris street lamp, traditional blue enamel street signs and a tiny pixelated extraterrestrial.

Old Paris meets an 8-bit universe.

That’s precisely the kind of visual collision that makes street-art hunting so much fun.

Stop 4: Look Up on Rue Saint-Jacques

📍 Rue Saint-Jacques, 5th arrondissement

Here’s where the hunt becomes more difficult.

Look above the balconies.

A documented Mr Djoul work on Rue Saint-Jacques consists of a simple alien head constructed from blue and gray tiles. The piece was deliberately placed above balcony level, which means staring straight ahead while walking isn’t going to find it.

New rule for the scavenger hunt:

Look up.

Street artists use the vertical city, while most of us experience Paris horizontally. Once you start deliberately scanning upward, an entirely different city appears.

Stop 5: The Orange Alien of Montorgueil

📍 43 Rue Montorgueil, 2nd arrondissement

Rue Montorgueil is already one of those streets where there is plenty competing for your attention: cafés, shops, food and people.

But somewhere among all that activity was another visitor.

Mr Djoul installed a small orange humanoid alien with enormous eyes on a pillar here. The work was documented in January 2023. The street-art database now marks this particular piece as gone, which introduces another reality of our scavenger hunt.

Street art isn’t permanent.

A building can be renovated. A wall can be painted. A mosaic can disappear.

So sometimes the hunt ends with an empty wall.

Oddly, I think that makes finding the surviving pieces even more satisfying.

Stop 6: Rue Ampère

📍 Rue Ampère, 17th arrondissement

Here’s one I particularly like.

Above the classic Paris RUE AMPERE sign floats a tiny UFO.

Inside it?

You guessed it.

An alien.

The little green-faced creature appears to be piloting its spacecraft directly over the street sign.

It is funny, clever and easy to miss, which may be the perfect combination for this kind of street art.

Stop 7: An Alien Goes Skateboarding

And just when you think you understand Mr Djoul’s little extraterrestrials, one gets considerably more ambitious.

Near Beaubourg, a much larger mosaic photographed in March 2025 shows a bright blue alien riding a red skateboard, arms extended, with movement lines flying behind him.

This isn’t simply an alien head stuck to a wall. It is an entire little scene.

By this point in our scavenger hunt, the aliens have shaken hands, flown UFOs and gone skateboarding.

Apparently extraterrestrial life in Paris is quite active.

Sometimes Mr Djoul Has Company

There is another wrinkle to this hunt.

Mr Djoul’s work sometimes appears alongside or in collaboration with other mosaic artists, including A2, another Paris street artist whose imagery includes hearts and pixelated figures. A documented installation at 40 Rue des Archives included several mosaics associated with A2 and Mr Djoul, including a dark face with two red hearts for eyes.

Another documented work at 42 Rue Monsieur le Prince also lists both artists.

So finding one mosaic may lead to another.

And another.

That’s how a casual walk through Paris suddenly becomes a treasure hunt.

The Rules of the Mr Djoul Challenge

I think my rules would be simple:

Look up, down and around corners.
Find the alien.
Photograph it in its surroundings, not just as a close-up.
Look nearby for other street artists.
Never assume every pixelated mosaic is an Invader.
And give yourself bonus points if your alien is doing something ridiculous.

There is also no guarantee that a mosaic documented several years ago will still be there. That isn’t a flaw in the hunt. It is part of street art.

Now I Have Another Reason to Wander

This is becoming one of my favorite ways to explore Paris.

I can visit the Louvre to see art that has been carefully protected for centuries. Then I can walk outside and search for art that might be gone tomorrow.

Mr Djoul’s aliens aren’t waiting behind museum glass.

They’re hiding above balconies, beside street signs, around corners and on walls we normally pass without a second glance.

And there are enough of them that finding one doesn’t really finish the hunt.

It just makes me want to find the next one.

So the next time I’m wandering through Paris and everyone else is looking at the shops, cafés and monuments, I’ll probably be doing something slightly different.

I’ll be looking for aliens.

#MrDjoul #ParisStreetArt #ParisScavengerHunt #MosaicArt #PixelArt #StreetArtParis #HiddenParis #ParisPhotography #ParisAliens #ExploreParis

The Paris Mosaic Scavenger Hunt: Discovering Morèje’s Hidden Stories

2026-09-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

Paris has a way of rewarding people who look closely.

You can walk down the same street a dozen times, admiring the balconies, cafés and old stone buildings, and then suddenly notice something you have never seen before: a tiny mosaic embedded in a wall.

That is where the scavenger hunt begins.

One of the artists whose work can be discovered this way is Morèje, the artistic name of French artist Jérôme Gulon. His mosaics are scattered through Paris, sometimes so subtly incorporated into the architecture that it would be easy to walk right past them.

But finding one is only half the game.

Look for the Story Behind the Mosaic

Morèje approaches street art differently from many mosaic artists. Instead of simply choosing an empty wall and installing an image, he has created what he calls parcours, or routes.

The individual mosaics become points along those routes.

One of the most fascinating is his Parcours de la Commune, devoted to people associated with the Paris Commune of 1871. Small portraits appear around Paris in places connected to the people depicted or to the history of the Commune.

So here are the rules for my Morèje scavenger hunt:

Find the mosaic. Identify the person. Then figure out why Morèje put it there.

Suddenly, street-art hunting becomes a history lesson.

Hunt #1: Jean-Baptiste Clément

One person to look for is Jean-Baptiste Clément, a journalist, political activist and participant in the Paris Commune. He is also remembered for writing the lyrics to Le Temps des cerises, a song that became closely associated with the Commune.

Morèje depicts him in a small portrait surrounded by irregular colored pieces of mosaic.

Finding the portrait is interesting.

Discovering who Clément was makes it better.

Understanding why his image belongs in that particular Paris neighborhood completes the puzzle.

Hunt #2: Louise Michel

Next, look for Louise Michel.

Teacher, revolutionary, writer and one of the best-known figures associated with the Commune, Michel spent part of her life in Montmartre.

Morèje incorporated her into his Commune project as well.

This is where the scavenger hunt becomes particularly fun. You aren’t searching for a giant mural covering the side of a building. You are searching for something small enough to disappear into the visual clutter of Paris.

Check walls.

Look beside doorways.

Study corners.

And don’t forget to look down.

Hunt #3: Gustave Courbet

Another name on the hunt is artist Gustave Courbet.

Courbet became involved with the Commune and famously opposed the Vendôme Column, which he regarded as a symbol of militarism. The column was pulled down during the Commune and later rebuilt.

So where might Morèje place a work connected with Courbet?

Place Vendôme.

This is exactly what makes the project so clever. Once you understand the history, the location becomes another clue.

Hunt #4: Paul Verlaine

Not every Morèje trail concerns the Commune.

Head toward the Batignolles and another literary clue awaits.

Poet Paul Verlaine lived with his family on Rue Nollet during his youth. Morèje created a tribute to Verlaine in the neighborhood, turning another ordinary Paris street into a place where literature, biography and contemporary art intersect.

This is the kind of street art I particularly enjoy. You aren’t simply photographing an object. You are discovering why it belongs where you found it.

Hunt #5: Find Something You Weren’t Looking For

This may be the most important challenge of all.

Forget the list for a while.

Put away the map.

Walk.

Morèje has been placing mosaics in public spaces for decades, and his work isn’t limited to conventional square ceramic tiles. Some pieces incorporate photographs, drawings, text and unexpected materials.

That means you have to train your eyes.

A tiny patch of color on an old wall may not be a repair.

A little portrait near a doorway may not be a plaque.

That strange collection of tesserae you nearly walked past may be exactly what you came to Paris to find.

Paris Becomes the Museum

Perhaps that is what I like most about turning Morèje’s work into a scavenger hunt.

There is no admission ticket.

There is no gallery entrance.

There isn’t even a sign telling you where to stand.

Instead, the streets become the exhibition space.

You begin with a mosaic. The mosaic leads to a person. The person leads to a historical event. And suddenly the building, street or square around you means something different than it did five minutes earlier.

Paris has always been a city layered with history.

Morèje simply gives us another reason to slow down and look for it.

And once you’ve spotted your first little mosaic tucked into a Paris wall, there is really only one question left:

Where is the next one hiding?

#Moreje #JeromeGulon #ParisStreetArt #ParisScavengerHunt #MosaicArt #StreetArtParis #ParisCommune #HiddenParis #ParisPhotography #ExploreParis

The Luggage Saga: We Finally Have a Plan!

2026-09-17T14:55:29.158-07:00

The Luggage Saga: We Finally Have a Plan!

If you have been following the continuing adventures of Karen’s luggage, you already know that this suitcase has managed to have a considerably more complicated European vacation than any of us.

First, it didn’t arrive with Karen in Paris. Then it turned up in Warsaw. After days of calls, tracking, airline conversations and attempts to arrange delivery, it finally made its way back to France.

And, in a feat of absolutely impeccable bad timing, it was delivered to Château Marouatte about an hour after we left.

So we had solved one problem: we knew where the suitcase was.

Unfortunately, Karen wasn’t there anymore.

That began the next chapter: How do you get an unaccompanied suitcase from a château in rural France back to its owner in the United States?

Calling in UPS

The first thought was UPS. Karen started investigating whether she could arrange an international pickup from the Château and have the suitcase shipped to her in Rhode Island.

That immediately raised more questions.

Would there be customs forms? Would tariffs or duties apply to someone’s own used clothing and personal belongings? How would the bag have to be labeled? Who at the Château could actually prepare it for pickup?

As Karen put it:

“This is a complicated problem.”

That may be the understatement of this entire adventure.

At one point, it appeared that Karen could schedule a pickup, provided someone at the Château labeled the suitcase. Beth volunteered to help. We were getting closer.

But international shipping isn’t quite as simple as putting an address on a suitcase and handing it to the UPS driver.

Enter Luggage Forward

Then Karen found a company whose entire business is solving exactly this kind of problem: Luggage Forward.

The service works with shipping carriers and can arrange to collect luggage at one location and deliver it to another. In this case, the plan is wonderfully straightforward:

Château Marouatte → Karen’s door in Rhode Island.

Of course, “straightforward” is a word I am using very cautiously in any story involving this particular suitcase.

Karen coordinated the arrangements and needed a contact person at the Château. David and Pip were going to be away for several days, adding yet another little scheduling wrinkle, but Beth provided David’s contact information so the shipping arrangements could move forward.

Then came the news we had been waiting for.

Pickup is scheduled for September 24.

Luggage Forward will send a forwarding packet containing the shipping labels and luggage tags to David at the Château. One label is to go inside the suitcase and another on the outside. The bag is to be ready for pickup by 1:00 p.m.

Even the instructions contain a few interesting details. Internationally shipped luggage cannot contain lithium-battery tracking devices such as AirTags or Tiles, and the company warns against locking the suitcase, even with a TSA-approved lock, because that can cause customs delays. Zip ties are provided instead.

This suitcase is apparently going to receive more pre-departure preparation than some passengers do.

And Now…We Wait

By the time Beth and Ron prepared to leave France, everything that could be done from their end had been done.

The suitcase was at the Château.

David and Pip had the information.

The forwarding packet and luggage tags were expected.

The pickup had been scheduled.

Karen thanked everyone who had helped with this increasingly elaborate rescue mission, and Beth had one final request:

“Let me know when your bag arrives.”

At this point, I think all of us want to know.

So the next important date in the Great Karen Luggage Saga is September 24, 2026.

That is the day our now-famous suitcase is scheduled to leave Château Marouatte and begin what we sincerely hope will be the final leg of its extraordinary international journey.

Paris to Warsaw.

Warsaw back to France.

Eventually to Château Marouatte.

Arriving approximately one hour too late.

And now, if everything finally goes according to plan:

Château Marouatte to Rhode Island.

Fingers crossed. 🤞

Because I am absolutely not writing “The End” yet.

To be continued…

#KarensLuggageSaga #LostLuggage #LuggageForward #France2026 #ChateauMarouatte #TravelMishaps #TravelStories #DordogneAdventures #YouCantMakeThisStuffUp #ToBeContinued

Who Left That on the Wall? A Field Guide to Paris’s Mosaic Artists

2026-09-15T10:30:20.834-07:00

Once I realized that not every little mosaic alien on a Paris wall was an Invader, I discovered an entirely new game: learning to recognize the artists by their visual signatures.

Here is my quick field guide for my next Paris walk.

Invader: Look for the Pixels

The best-known name is, of course, Invader. Since beginning his Paris project in 1998, the anonymous French artist has installed ceramic mosaics inspired by the pixelated graphics of early video games, especially the 1978 Space Invaders arcade game.

Look for: pixelated aliens, video-game characters and increasingly elaborate images constructed from square tiles.

Website: Invader’s official site is Space Invaders.

Morèje: The Mosaic Pioneer

Morèje, or Jérôme Gulon, is particularly important historically. He began incorporating mosaics into urban art in the 1980s, before Invader’s project began.

His small mosaics are often designed to interact with their surroundings and may incorporate portraits, photographs, text and other materials.

Look for: more traditional tesserae, portraits and compositions that respond to the history or character of their location.

Website: Morèje’s official website.

Mr Djoul: Look Closely at the Aliens

Mr Djoul is where identification gets tricky. He also creates little mosaic aliens, but they belong to his own visual vocabulary.

Look for: small humanoid aliens, often with particularly noticeable eyes. If it looks vaguely like an Invader but something seems different, it is worth investigating before assigning the work to Invader.

I have not found a personal website for Mr Djoul that I can confidently verify as official, so I would rather not give him an incorrect one.

A2: Hearts, Love and Anarchy

Once you learn the symbol of A2, the work becomes much easier to recognize.

A2 means A²: Amour et Anarchie, or Love and Anarchy. The anonymous Parisian artist repeatedly uses a heart containing the anarchist A and also creates imagery associated with figures such as Louise Michel and Emma Goldman.

Look for: hearts, the anarchist A, Louise Michel, Emma Goldman and the character Barbanar.

Website: A2 Street Art. There is also an excellent illustrated interview with the artist at Zinc Paris.

MifaMosa: Look at the Street Name

MifaMosa turns finding street art into a word game.

The artist creates mosaics inspired by the names of the streets where they are installed. That means the artwork and the street sign often need to be read together before the joke reveals itself.

Look for: a mosaic that seems to illustrate, reinterpret or make a visual pun from the street’s name.

Stork: Look for the Birds

This one is considerably easier.

Stork places mosaic storks around the city.

Look for: the unmistakable long-legged silhouette of a stork. Some installations become even more interesting when their locations are considered collectively, turning individual mosaics into part of a larger geographical composition.

Solrac: Look to the Stars

Solrac took the idea in another direction, installing blue mosaics representing constellations.

Look for: predominantly blue compositions based on stars and constellations.

Instead of invading Paris with creatures, Solrac effectively scattered pieces of the night sky across it.

Ememem: Look Down!

Not all Paris mosaics are on walls.

Ememem repairs cracks, holes and scars in pavement with brilliantly colored ceramic mosaics. The artist calls the technique flacking.

I love the idea. A damaged piece of the city isn’t disguised. Instead, the scar becomes the artwork.

Look for: colorful mosaics fitted directly into broken pavement and masonry.

Website: Ememem’s official website.

IPDO: Look for Familiar Characters

I Pixel di Oplontis, generally abbreviated IPDO, is another name worth remembering. The artists have used recognizable popular-culture imagery, including characters inspired by the Smurfs.

Look for: colorful pixel characters and the initials IPDO.

Zigom.art: Check the Tiles

Zigom.art creates colorful pixel and mosaic characters that can also make you stop and wonder whether you have discovered an Invader.

Look more closely. One identifying feature associated with Zigom is the use of rounded tiles and a separate hexagonal tile as a signature.

And that is becoming my favorite part of this discovery.

I used to walk through Paris looking for Invaders.

Next time, I will be looking for mosaics.

An alien might be Invader or Mr Djoul. A heart might lead me to A2. A bird could reveal Stork. A peculiar picture might suddenly make sense when I read the street sign and realize I have found MifaMosa. And if I spend all my time looking up at the walls, I could walk straight over an Ememem without ever noticing it.

Paris has turned into an enormous open-air mosaic gallery.

The trick is learning where to look.

Up at the walls. Down at the pavement. Around the corner. And always at the street sign.

#ParisStreetArt #ParisMosaics #InvaderParis #MosaicStreetArt #HiddenParis #UrbanArtParis #StreetArtHunting #ParisArt #ParisDiscoveries #WalkingParis