The Practice of Seeing

Tag: life

  • The Power in Your Hands

    The Power in Your Hands

    King of the Screen: How Social Media Empowers Us—And Isolates Us

    Social media is the ultimate double-edged sword of our modern era, a dynamic arena where we constantly balance connection with chaos, and truth with noise. It opens the doors to a global audience, inviting in the brilliant, the challenging, and everything in between. Yes, it gives us a platform to share our deepest thoughts, but it also creates a landscape where offense is easily found.

    So why do we step into the arena anyway?

    Think back to the days before the internet, when showcasing creative work meant holding physical prints and slides. Back then, a photographer’s art was quiet, seen only by an immediate circle of family and friends. The world was small, and so was our reach.

    Today, everything has changed. We have an unprecedented universe of platforms to launch our work, our ideas, and our grandest concepts into the world. You have this very blog, a dedicated space to speak your truth and share your vision.

    Of course, this digital frontier comes with risks. It takes courage to stand in the light when trolls and cynics hide in the shadows of keyboard courage, saying things online they would never dare utter face-to-face.

    While it would appear that the internet is a horrible place and social media is a big contributor to hatred and drama, it is also a powerful engine for expanding our world, our ideas, our creativity, and our inspiration. It may feel nearly impossible to fully avoid the drama and hate online, but I, for one, am not ready to give it up. I choose to rise above the noise, consciously work to stay out of the drama, and actively seek out positive, meaningful interactions with the world.

    Don’t let the noise drown out your signal. The world needs more authentic voices, more art, and more passion. Your work deserves to be seen, your thoughts deserve to be heard, and your creative courage is exactly how we shift the digital world toward something better. Keep sharing, keep creating, and never let the fear of a critic keep you from your calling.

  • Archives as Time Capsules

    Archives as Time Capsules

    Old photographic files are emotional archaeology. They remind me how I once saw the world, and how my seeing has changed.

    I open these folders the way one brushes dust from a buried wall—slowly, half-expecting something to collapse, half-hoping it won’t. Each image is a shard. Each filename a coordinate. Together they form a landscape I once walked through without knowing I was leaving tracks.

    Digital photographs pretend to be light, but they are heavy with looking. The moment they open, time bends inward. A window reappears. A street exhales. Someone I knew stands exactly where they once stood, suspended in the careless confidence of being unremembered. These images do not move, yet they advance toward me.

    In the earliest files, everything is crowded. The frame tries to hold too much sky, too many faces, too much proof. I wanted the world intact, uncut, unwilling to let anything fall outside the edges. I photographed as if loss were immediate, as if memory were already failing. The camera was my insurance policy against disappearance.

    What I see now is hunger. Not for beauty, but for certainty. I didn’t yet trust experience to stay with me unless I pinned it down with pixels. I needed evidence that I had been there, that the moment had weight, that it could be returned to later and still answer my name.

    As the years scroll forward, the images breathe. Space appears. Silence. The subject drifts to the margins. A shadow on a wall begins to matter more than the wall itself. I stop trying to gather the world and start listening to it. The photographs no longer ask to be believed; they ask to be felt.

    This is where the archaeology turns inward. The record is no longer of places, but of attention. What I framed tells me what I was ready to notice. What I left out tells me what I could not yet see. Certain colors repeat like a private language. Certain distances hold, again and again, as if I were measuring how close I dared to be.

    There are years filled with people, and years emptied of them. Years that lean toward motion, and others that kneel before stillness. At the time, none of this felt intentional. Now it reads like weather—patterns moving through me, shaping what the lens could hold.

    Some photographs remember more than I do. Others remember things I was sure were essential, but now barely recognize. The archive is honest in a way memory is not. It does not flatter. It does not edit for narrative. It simply keeps what I gave it.

    And yet, I feel tenderness toward every flawed frame. The awkward compositions. The overexposed skies. The moments that try too hard. They are sincere attempts to understand. You can’t fake attention, even when you don’t yet know what you’re paying it for.

    These files are not proof of improvement. They are proof of continuity. Each image is a layer, not a correction. Each way of seeing made the next one possible. Nothing here is wasted.

    Someday, the photographs I take now will become artifacts too. I will open them and wonder what I was reaching for, what I feared might vanish, what I thought mattered most. That is the quiet promise hidden in every image—not that it will preserve the past, but that it will teach the future how to look back gently.

  • Even as artists, we don’t know what we don’t know.

    Even as artists, we don’t know what we don’t know.

    I made a decision last night while I was enjoying a cognac sitting in my recliner, watching our newly adopted rescue dog sleeping next to my wife while we were watching a television show. That decision was to get back to doing what you do, which involves writing this blog, playing my video games, and my photographic art. This past year has been a wild ride that I won’t go into details about, except for learning you don’t know what you don’t know. I used to hate that expression!

    A couple of things have helped bring my understanding of the words: you don’t know what you don’t know. Firstly, I have learned so much about bringing my vision forward in creating the final image I imagined when I took a photo. My goal was to create something that would engage the viewer, even if that viewer is just myself.

    My deeper understanding of life has evolved through a series of events over the past year. I underwent radiation therapy for cancer, which was a significant challenge. During this time, I also learned more about creating photographic art than I ever imagined, thanks to the guidance of my mentor and the support of like-minded individuals and my family. Additionally, I adopted a rescue dog, which has brought unexpected joy and companionship into my life and also taught me that we don’t always know about the challenges and past that many people have experienced.

    It is with these insights in both my mind and heart that I will move forward to helping myself become more compassionate towards others and passionate about my art. Additionally, I will use those traits to help others with their journeys, understanding that I don’t always have to know their stories or history, but just to be there to support them as they ask.

    Through this blog and my art, I aim to achieve some of this through regular entries. These entries may not always focus on art or photography, but may also include life lessons I have learned or experienced.

  • It isn’t always about you.

    It isn’t always about you.

    I have pondered this post for a couple of weeks now. In fact, I started to write it and gave it a title, then I stopped because it was going to be too much of a rant on new or beginning photographers and selling their services to customers. I ran through several wording styles in my head and then finally deleted the entire post this morning.

    The reason I wanted to start over was that I have been reading a book, Inner Excellence by Jim Murphy, and yesterday I came upon two quotes that resonated with me. The first was, “if all you see is chickens and chicken scratch, it doesn’t matter if you are an eagle; flying won’t be part of your world.” The second was, “expect nothing, prepare for anything.”

    These were very powerful messages for me, igniting a self-reflective journey. Instead of concerning myself with what others were doing or how they were marketing their photography services, I needed to focus on mastering my own mind. By doing so, I would subsequently empower myself to master my unique vision and skills in producing the art I truly want to create. My obsession with the perceived failures of others was clouding my judgment and inhibiting my own self-mastery.

    Rather than rant about this publicly, I realized there’s tremendous value in working to demonstrate the message I was attempting to relay to others. The true path to inspire and be of service to others lies in action rather than mere words or criticisms. By focusing on my inner growth and honing my skills, I could transform the frustrations I feel into motivation and clarity. In doing so, I pave the way to uplift others in their journeys, reminding them that personal excellence often stems from a place of introspection and self-awareness.

    This renewed perspective has encouraged me to cultivate a mindset where I expect nothing but prepare for anything. Embracing this principle allows me to navigate challenges without getting bogged down by the comparative metrics that often stifle creativity and joy in the craft. Each photographer’s journey is unique, and by staying true to my own path, I can create visuals that reflect my personal story, thus leaving space for authentic connections with others who appreciate my work. Through this reflection, I turn the quest for excellence into both a personal and collective endeavor, fostering a community where creativity thrives.