Why Must We Insist Upon Identifying Every Means of Pure Illumination?

I was watching the rising full moon

Searching for answers in the outline of a previous muse

I had something more clever to say

But I lost my words

Perhaps they lost me

I am no longer sure which way the connection circulates

It's as though my circuits have been buried in the foundations of stronger surfaces

The great withdrawal pulls down with the gravity of lesser descriptions

I swallow too deeply for the fact that my mouth is full of nothing but broken teeth

They will build up the scar tissue of a throat already insufficent

They will find their resting place

The fragments of a smile stuck within an organ that feels anything but vital

Is this digestion?

My mouth has become a wasteland and my body insists on impressing that upon others

Welcome to the Midwest

Welcome to guilt by association

I find envy in the zealots that steal Sundays from the sun

Not for the sake of some promised longevity, for I am not built for eternity

Hell, I can barely function enough to survive the idea of immediacy

I push down the plunger and bring life back to these bones

Chasing the remaining reminders of a heart attack that likely hasn't occurred

Or has yet to occur

Depending upon the time you find discernment within my vaguely specific observations

I chase my sight from a digital window to the wild which rises outside the security I could collapse if my recently destroyed passion was truly reborn in passion for destruction

I daydream of arson.

Because we both know if I burn this place to the ground at least it would provide some heat

The landlocked lovers dream of the sea, trading tides for the rise of windswept fields

Salt coats my outline as the winter infiltrates my mind

I am a road far too travelled, without a thought of the composites required to keep the vehicle in motion

I am a postcard decades removed

You find me in the boxes ignored 3 moves over

You pull my memory from the frames, beyond the stale scent of mildew and lost years

Children grew in those times, though my words speak nothing of their incongruence

We are running late for a party we've yet to uninvite ourselves from

I'm watching the bodies dancing within the curtains of a home I cannot claim

Like silhouettes

Like ghosts of a past I will always exist within, as will you.

We force ourselves out of such beautiful breathing patterns as we chase greener expanses

Though we appear to have forgotten that the tone of growth requires liquid saturation to produce the saturated hues we innately desire.

Why should we even be searching for well covered ground?

Wouldn't it be more admirable if we surrounded ourselves with space yet to grow?

To locate not only a space which longs for the progress we daydream of but one which supplies us the ability to produce, and perceive the beauty we are truly responsible for.

Too often we choose to find our repose within the boundaries birthed from the hands of others.

I have no desire to move from something I helped build into falsely absorbing and obsessing over the grounds I never placed a foot upon.

Of course this is not to say I don't understand the significance of other's beauty, or in that understanding that such beauty can erupt amid the same fields that sucked us dry all those humid nights we drowned ourselves in fluids but failed finding any tangible refreshment.

Fill the tables with inclusion

Forgetting that there's a fracture which I can pinpoint in any photo sent my way

Where induced inclusion begins to work in reverse.

We reach such resounding heights, overlooking the fact that one step beyond the peak is an introduction to descent.

We cannot stay on high

Though we must not allow peaks to define our beings

We must not allow, also, the reaction which results from involuntary depletion to do the same.

Digression leads one far from the means of memory

The peeling edges of a card peels back the days

Kitschy coins, coined inside jokes, inside an image I can now only experience in my head

Nicknames, and welcome signs I saw while the world slept in the passenger seat

All held within the sea stretched between the corners of an attraction we overlooked

Existence flips, as the northern wind pushes the summer down below the delineation of cancer.

It separates skin from roadside attractions pristine due to lack of elemental exposure

We see ourselves within these interjections of interstate travel

We are petrified without national recognition.

Fossils yet to truly expire.

Postcards folded into failing envelopes

Reminders of spaces I never shared

We turn over the page, to find a message more fitting with each passing pixel

"I wish I was there."

-Matthew 08/2022

Short Morning Musings on the balance between artistic photography and photography for documentation purposes.

...When I first got into photography on a serious level I was taught how towards the beginning there was a serious battle between the group of individuals that saw this as a means for truly creative artistic expression, and those which saw the camera merely as a tool for the sake of documentation, utilized for scientific means as well as by painters looking to have a physical aid when constructing their masterpieces without being directly in the company of the subject they were re-imagining. For years there was this undeniable division which kept burning between these two worlds, as many swore the camera could never be seen as a true artistic medium, at least not in the same vein as painting/sculpture. Eventually there came a realization, through the assistance of persistent masters, that true creative/aesthetically appealing modes of expression could come from this medium and we cannot deny its rightful place in the artistic world.

Decades then transpired, and while the development of more affordable/accessible cameras, with less reliance on the operator to capture imagery, brought this medium into every home casually scarring the suburban landscape, there was a very clear line between the contemporary minds creating pieces worthy of hanging in the (at times falsely) hollowed hallways of the greatest galleries, and the point-and-shoot master capturing the fuzz of a child's birthday for the sake of saving that moment in a well-placed album we'll revisit in more somber times. I got older and more involved, and the misguided minds and hands of teenage inclusion saw those I shared the darkroom with fall away as they could no longer feign interest in photography beyond the exaggerated mirroring of oneself, which new technology made so immediately available.

Then the technology advanced far beyond the development of the majority of the minds/bodies which now surround us like some pre-mature graveyard, and soon those that lost interest when user error was more impactful, fell back "in love" with the elegant pastime of purchasing a perspective. Because while it's never universal, there's a way which those that lack persistence stay consistent in such an approach, and sometimes technology will turn things in their favor if they simply hold-off long enough.

So we arrive here, where the average individual possesses a level of authentic vision which falls somewhere between color-by-number ethics and the latest pyramid scheme helping stay-at-home moms stay at home. Where we are left to recognize the cycle which we have been suspended within. Where the rising tide of technological development brings back a true division between that which is genuinely art and that which is merely documentation. This is not to debate or compare the worth of these two seemingly opposing sides of the same intangible coin, rather to show that some of us truly feel as if we aren't in this to simply showcase the beauty of mirrored recreation. We aren't looking to make an easily digested depiction which is indistinguishable from the depictions others claim ownership of. For some, this medium quite literally helped keep guns in drawers when they could so easily have received welcome invitation within the rented coffins we once called home. For some it's not about showcasing easily disguised beauty. For some it goes far deeper than finding new ways to expand upon narcissism.

Now I'm well aware there's likely some major flaws in my approach, but sometimes it feels as though I too must defend the true meaning (as I see it) much the same as those individuals I admired for being so passionate about the medium decades before I took a single breath. Perhaps I'm wrong, but I'll forever put my faith in the "mantra" that not all photographers are artists and not all observers are exceptions to that which they openly observe.

For I Am The Siren More Than I Am The Song

...This morning we woke to a blanket of snow covering a slumbering city, or I should say some of us awoke. That snow filled the transition from night to day, but the darkness flooded in long before a single pixel found itself resting along a motionless motor. The snow seems fitting given the time of year, as the tears we've been holding down can no longer be restrained and they have begun to freeze in piles at our feet. And we'll hear claims of the purity such a lack of color represents, but there's none of that to be discovered here. There's nothing comforting about having our breath pulled out from beneath us, because the warmth will surely escape and we'll be left inhaling the frigid cover of a world in slow-motion. Our lungs will fill but I'm not sure they possess an ability to expel that recycled air back into this room. For we pulled in your final scent and are now committing too passionately to the art of holding our breath. We border upon suffocation, but somehow the edge is welcoming. Perhaps sometimes it's good to instill fear within ourselves of ourselves for the sake of recognizing the limits our bodies can withstand. Though those limits are echoing so loudly off these canyon walls which are nothing more than a suburban hallway, however this is the natural world we've grown to accept as our own. The world which convinced us that domestication could appear so wild. I'm not certain where closure comes, but I've been spending my morning attempting to best pinpoint where a circle comes to an end, and while I can pick apart the scars that may stand as defining factors of this division, there's nothing stating that such linework dictates points of weakness. For often the strength recognized in those we've lost is required to help carry so many broken individuals through those moments of absence that will linger far beyond the vast vacancy of a winter straddling the separation of a man-made calendar that keeps filling up with anniversaries we have no desire to celebrate.

Now I can taste the blood filling the space behind my teeth, as a reserved smile of knives digs deep into my jaw to present some level of release, but we've been so focused on that which is pulled out beneath the doorways of these homes that have become nothing more than spaces to house all the demons we convinced ourselves we wouldn't need to converse with so quickly. So I'm stuck revisiting the idea that I'd pull my limbs from their sockets if it would somehow remove from those much stronger than myself the fevers which keep them awake through these days of waning light and reorganized existence. How bittersweet the way the weather patterns appear to mimic the way the human form seems to rush between various planes of understanding. How fleeting we can all become within moments that stand still, within an existence we experience in sequence but recall primarily through stills. We long to bury our bodies within the lasting labor of those classic films, but resolution discovered isn't some idealized storyline. It's a battle reminiscent of those our grandparents outlined within the walls of a home we're all still trying to return to. Oh the warmth of the past, if only we could trade these chills for the comfort of days that feel so close. Days we feel we could reinstate in spite of the fact that we've bent all of our fingers to the backs of our hands, and broken bones aren't much when it comes to carrying the weight of the world. A world that will endlessly refuse to wait for your approval to keep pushing on, to keep presenting to you admirable progression through unshakable heartbreak. In these moments we will begin to discover the way such hours of suffocation births within us a serious desire for destruction, as passion revoked is often reorganized as a real passion for destruction, but we don't desire to pull others beneath the rising tides. So we reserve that destruction for ourselves, inhaling currents for the sake of feeling truly organic motion, swallowing everything we need besides personal solace. Because it's always been easier to push myself below the promising peaks of the waves, to allow the salt to coat my throat until I am nothing more than a mortal lighthouse, a beacon standing to remind you where the edge is drawn, to remind the point where the consoling repose of the open ocean is replaced by the silent threat of submerged mountains showcasing the promise of pinnacles while concealing the valleys necessary to project such heights above the submersion we chemically combat with each new sunrise. For I am the siren more than the song.

And I wish I spoke with more frequency of topics that focus on the radiant points of existence, but it's hard to not feel stationary when the winds have been cut off like the sentences I've filled so many notebooks with. Ideas come to a close, and thoughts find a point of finality, and if life is essentially an abstract series of thoughts that exist separately yet are inexplicably and undeniably connected via wires we pay others to attempt to comprehend, then life too will find a point of completion, and we must embrace this point. We must learn to embrace the beauty of closure even when our palms are burnt by the handles of doors holding up the thresholds we'll never fully pass through.

For while an open, or otherwise unfinished book, presents an immense level of intrigue, we tend to fill the forthcoming pages with details we personally construct, and life isn't meant to be lived in such a manor. Because when we find ourselves too ingrained within organizing the details of a subjectivity exterior to ours we fail to find that fulfillment within our own self-dictated details. So learn to admire the possibilities that align themselves within the absent pages of what is yet to come, but don't fret when you find yourself face to face with the final mark of punctuation. Because while the details may be momentarily concealed from their surroundings, we have an ability to absorb and expand in such fascinating ways, and such tendencies allow even the oldest stories to stay alive in a sense I can't quite understand. Though this fact is no different from any other attempt I've taken to define what that odd balance feels like between being and feeling alive.

The frost seems so much heavier now, how it hangs in my chest through each initial inhalation I pull in as I escape the confines of home and immerse myself in an ever thinning atmosphere. And there will always be those that paint such pretty pictures of the point where the air ends and somehow reforms itself into something a little more solid, but I don't think the air ever ends, rather it simply gets thinner until we no longer possess the ability to differentiate between our own being and the space that being is suspended within. We have yet to reach such heights, however I'm not sure height is the correct means of measurement. For we place so much above ourselves and it causes us to question our worth a bit too passionately. Because there are gaps here which will never be erased, like a bridge burnt to the ground for the sake of reminding us that rushing waves and raging flames often echo just the same. But gaps allow the light to spill into our overly-diagnosed seclusion, and this light will mend us with gold, not for the sake of removing the reminders of where it all fell apart, but to accentuate this scorched earth with a beauty and strength representative of the being which involuntarily caused us to lose grip in that moment that filled the floor with the scattered pieces of what once was whole.

So this year we shall cancel the holidays, and we'll gather the same weekend within hallways pulsing with so many people it'll be impossible not to notice the emptiness, however whether that emptiness exists within us and is being impressed upon our surroundings, or vice versa, is yet to be determined. And I don't believe in ghosts but I feel like one all the same, as I pull teeth out through my sleep, broken like the windows filling the fractioned walls holding up the industrialized side of town that represents my lungs with each heaving hour. These are the moments where we question if we're actually lost or simply have lost any desire to be unearthed from the frozen ground we buried ourselves beneath hoping this unnatural rise in mercury would reorganize the frost into a lake that could swallow us whole. Because we still aren't convinced that if we are truly fluid beings we can't simply submerge ourselves to the point that we become one with the waves. Though perhaps we've been dreaming a bit too feverishly about anything that could carry us from here. Perhaps such thoughts connected to lofty dreams of evaporation is what has me drawing up plans for diving from the depths of the bridges in my hometown, filling amateur postcards with their oncoming absence.

So we shall remember you as a time. As a light. As the light which falls in those magic moments where the sky becomes a painting and we truly understand the undeniable beauty that results from such a resilient entity pushing itself through layers of resistant atmosphere. Because the midday sun coats the city in an even glow, but that light only accentuates the shadows which really hold our attention. For without the resistance of a day racing around to greet the tropics, and without the glory we recognize within the final breath being pulled free from the sails, the sun is nothing more than a hole in a sky we've spent these recent days dreaming of tearing apart.

This need for expression is so strange, for we push the morning fog from our throats and then attempt to document that escaping breath before it simply becomes one with the rising sky. And we run circles round our heads as we interpret the unfurling nature of that which ebbs and flows outside our beings and valiantly venture to find a correlation between that and the flashes within our minds that we've learned to transmit from mere concept to connective actuality. For I do not desire to be the blood pulsing through your veins as much as I long to be the means of carrying that blood and allowing it access to areas previously unnoticed in spite of a continual existence. Because I'm nothing more than a being that strives to explain himself through showcasing the way my actions relate to the actions of existing factions of subjectivity which you already feel you have a grasp on. So we find ourselves surrounded by rooms we don't visit much, enveloped in the stale blue tones of a morning yet to greet the sun. And it will cause us to question whether this darkness signifies that we still have yet to let go of the night before, but the sun need not fill the sky to supply the radiance needed to turn night to day. These moments seem to redistribute strength, but I'm only pulling my fingertips free from my hands for the sake of keeping distance from discernibility. Nails now pushing through the defining line where the flesh begins, but my joints have turned to open wounds and arthritis is beginning to overtake any semblance of personal plasticity. However I'm learning this may be a genetic trait, or some form of adopted habit that those near me picked up in their own past and we now address as some long time familial commitment.

Last night the sky was bruised, but I failed being able to determine if this was a reaction to a new wound or old wounds finally pulling some level of healing to the surface even if only for the sake of showcasing that not all diseases push us through the floor. Now silence is spilling across state lines as it fills all that surrounds me while finding no place within me to rest. Rest is so fickle, for even when I close my eyes I'm unable to pull myself completely free from the confines of a recent reality we will surely revisit once the months begin to pull the heat from the ground and the sun will rise only to illuminate our breath, to showcase our increasing chills with each exposed expulsion of air. Though this year we set the sky on fire. And while we avoided the holidays I was reminded of a past placement perched so purposefully in that frame, but I can't recall who was coloring more outside the lines. We develop connections at a distance and fail to fully act upon that which wires us together, for at times we associate too greatly with the confines of a shared name and we adapt an inability to better access the fact that there would be a means for coming together even without such involuntary traits claiming ownership of our existence.

Now we spend hours speaking words we mean but don't really think of before we let them fall from our throat onto this overly-tread, uninviting carpet that seems to stretch all the way to the ceiling. We'll illuminate this unorganized alphabet as though these rooms aren't only holding the overflow, and we'll keep our back to the crowd as we are the offspring of a generation that learned if you keep your eyes on your demons they cannot come down to pull perspective from the base of your spine. So I find myself in the winter attempting to become one with the absent scenes of empty trees surrounding the skeletal remains of jagged reflections that market the spent breath of industrialized ghosts. Though in these days they pull the relics from my chest for the sake of bringing life back to these temporarily dormant means of inhalation, and I don't have the wherewithal to withstand the oncoming new year winds without the slightest excuse for ornamentation. I've lost the ability to decipher what day it is anymore, for the end of the week is dressed as though it is the bringer of introductions, but it's so skilled at closure it only exaggerates the panic we feel rising in our throats when lost in the purgatory of extended removal.

And I've been so uncertain in my uncertainty in these recent days of record warmth where I still felt chills so deep it made me readdress the space which I possess/disrupt all the same. Because it's so difficult to discover a point where I find comfort in completion. For I fear that such a means of closure will keep me from revisiting this momentum when calendar days shift slightly to match motion with the moon. However I have this peculiar infatuation with the songs which close out all these albums I periodically forget, and such an adoration for the final note, and the beauty that is a caterwaul of sorts fading into the static of silence never ceases me from finding a desire to come back to that initial melody which builds in the first few seconds until falling back to that moment of static. That moment where the silence envelops us and allows our minds to move with a swiftness we'll continually curse for it becomes increasingly apparent, in those moments that the most seductive inspiration arrives, that it tends to come at a rate we cannot fully encapsulate. For the mind moves much faster than our hands ever could match, much as the destruction that falls from the hand of man fails to even compare to the deterioration which fills one's dreams regardless of the time of day one is connected to. Though we must not forget that such drastic desires for destruction can be matched with a compassion so direct it's illegal in several countries. We must not forget that we have a purpose beyond ourselves. While we will watch those we love and abhor fall victim to time, as those that love us will do the same, in the moment we will fight back an inevitable breakdown and tear the tongues from the mouth's of those disengaged hymns for the sake of singing songs of triumph. For the melodies which we share will refuse to focus upon the final place of rest and rather the explosion of passion which eventually led to this splintered excuse for sanctuary perched so perfectly within sight of a childhood we grow further from each day.

(And moments of major loss always create this space where for a moment I find myself immensely envious of those that commit to any real form of religious faction. Not because I personally desire any savior outside myself, my family, my friends, and those that cross over the lines of imaginary division, because I've been down that road and it's surely not for me, but because I envy the comfort they can curate/locate knowing whatever it is they lost will once again be found. Because they hold steadfast to promises of an afterlife, to beliefs that we will end up in a better space, but I fail to find, through a means of removal, any true reason to feel as if where we now reside is nothing more than a waiting room for something greater. If we were all truly just awaiting something greater, some massive eternity where all that has been continues on in some similar sense, then I fail to understand the true significance behind this reality we're all suspended within. For in my opinion, there's little significance that I derive from anything deemed universal/unending. Besides, if by chance there is no true eternity we all share in free from the blemishes of modern existence, doesn't that just make this conscious reality far more important, doesn't it make these interactions that much deeper? When we were children we we're taught that all dogs go to heaven, but what's to say that this heaven is not represented by the space they currently reside within and share with us in a very tangible sense? What's to say we must hold out for the beauty of longevity when we can create ideas that possess a similar longevity/level of beauty in our present existence? Think of all you have in life, the lovers, the leaders, the left behind. Think of all the art, and music, and true beauty we get to immerse ourselves in, and think of how easily your consciousness could have fallen somewhere else along the timeline, somewhere far less fitting. And if a faith-based fate is not responsible for bringing this all together, does that not make all of this immeasurably more endearing? I have no desire to negate someone's chosen beliefs, and I'm not intending to challenge them, but if all of this is truly the result of reactions to organic actions unfolding for centuries, then I believe that is far more alluring/intriguing than anything any book could attempt to define. But this really isn't supposed to be connected to religion, or so focused on it, and I will never desire to fall in line with these factions of faith, but sometimes I just wish I could pull out pieces from it for the sake of finding some solace in sections of existence occupied by an absence even I don't welcome. Then again, I know if I did find myself in such a position than I would likely start to lose grip on the true level to which I should embrace the connections I've discovered/built within this confusing suspension, and that's nothing I need, for I have issues with personal withdrawal as it is. Now I know nothing is experienced universally and so our perspectives will vary, and I appreciate that, so please don't see my shared views as an attempt to take anything away from yours, for I'm simply attempting to sort my thoughts through a caterwauling morning. Turn away from the TV today Ignore the proceedings of politicians that don't care about you Create art Create love Create connection that does not rely on shared disgust to stay afloat Put yourself out there in ways you fear and dream of much the same Be vulnerable Be present Just Be Because sometimes that's a lot harder to do than we'd be led to believe. I'd like to take this final moment to just say how much I truly do adore having the ability to share in all of this confusion with so many, even when my mind/mouth doesn't transmit that, and if you take anything from this, please just give all your love as purely as possible, because you need it, and we need it, and the world needs it.)

Abstract Conceptual Photography Comes to Wartburg (Published 11-06-2017)

Abstract Conceptual Photography Comes to Wartburg

WILLCOONRADT STAFF WRITER

william.coonradt@wartburg.edu

The viewer should be able to interpret abstract artwork however they please, artist Matthew Terry

said.

The Wartburg College Art Gallery hosted Terry on Nov. 3. The exhibit features his abstract conceptual photography stretching back to late 2013 to early 2014. “I enjoy the process of doing all the hand-held images, I just like how hands on it is and how detailed it makes me have to become,” Terry said.

Terry enjoys this style of art due to the nature of abstract artwork. He said when the art is presented, the viewer then has the opportunity to come in and interpret it however they please. “I try to find scenes where you can see a clear difference between the original shot and the present day,” Terry said. “I try to let a couple months pass but sometimes it’s a couple years.”

As a regionally based photographer, a lot of Terry’s photos are recognizable to the students and faculty of Wartburg, Gallery Director and Exhibitions Manager Johanna Kramer-Weston said. “He’s a young up and coming artist,” Kramer-Weston said. “I am excited to give him this opportunity.”

“Keep yourself persistent,” Terry said. “There will be ups and downs and points where you completely question what you’re doing.” “Once you keep yourself passionate about what you’re doing and when you can get past those low points when the higher points come around it’s a lot more impactful,” Terry said. Terry can typically be found doing two to four exhibits each year.

An Interview With The Artist (Interviewed by Eboni Fields)

An Interview With The Artist (Interviewed by Eboni Fields a Fine Art Photography Major at the Savannah College of Art and Design)

1. Was photography your first career choice growing up?

I wouldn't say it was my initial goal, as I feel like everyone has various dreams/career goals at a young age that are never too serious. With that said, I was introduced to 35mm Film Photography when I was a sophomore in high school, and after a semester in the dark room I was hooked. After that I had toyed occasionally with going into Literature/Journalism, but photography was always the main goal/commitment.

2. Are all of your photographs taken in Iowa? If not, where else?

They certainly are not. The area I live at in Iowa, referred to as The Quad Cities, sits is along the Mississippi River and is made up of cities both on the Iowa and Illinois side of the river. So while I do live in Davenport (Iowa), I spend a lot of time in Illinois shooting as well. I also have created work from trips to Minnesota, Wisconsin, and California, but those images don't make up the majority of my work/current projects.

3. Can you tell me about any current projects you are working on?

Well I currently have 3 major projects that I work on and exhibit, outside of my minimalist street photography pieces, which don't tend to fall into a particular project.

A. "Revisiting Past Exposures" is my longest running project and it was developed while I was a Junior in college, eventually becoming my Senior project and my most widely exhibited work. This project involves printing out old photos I've shot, then revisiting the location and attempting to line up the original print with the current scene. This is done as a way to document the passage of time, the comparison between the past/present, showcasing the way the mind creates an image of a place/time in your mind and sometimes revisiting that allows you to see how the past and present may not align as smoothly as you once thought.

B. "In The Waiting Room (Somewhere Between Clarified Well-Being and Cognitive Dissonance)." This is my most recent project, but also the one that hits closest to home. This project revolves around the abstracts of dealing with various forms of mental health/mental illness. This is something that long influenced my expression and need to express myself in the beginning, so I wanted to use my art as a way to connect to individuals dealing with similar issues, as a result helping all involved feel a little less alone/disconnected, and hopefully helping to remove some of the stigma tied to such issues.

C. My final project, "Reconstructing The Rise of Asymmetrical Skylines" is my most abstract/non-traditional project, as I've long tried to avoid as much post-production as possible in my work. This project focuses on abandoned buildings, or various forms of architecture, either mid-destruction or mid-construction, and then through some editing/mirroring in Photoshop I create symmetrical pieces akin to a Rorschach blot test. Through this I aim to create a continuity and flow from segments of society that seems discarded/in a state of disarray.

4. I noticed on your website that you shoot in both black&white and color, do you have preference? why not just one or the other?

Without question I have a stronger preference towards B&W, and for the first few years of my photography I worked only in B&W. I was really drawn to the contrast of black and white imagery, and felt color was more of a distraction than anything else. It actually wasn't until I was required to take a color photography course in college that I began to embrace color work. That being said I still find myself more drawn to black and white pieces, though I am very drawn to blues and have a strong affinity for color work that prominently features primary color schemes.

5.What is your thought process through your projects?

I think that was outlined pretty well when explaining my projects, but it changes based on the project. I've gotten really good at pre-planning my shots for weeks or months before hand, however when I get out and shoot there's almost a subconscious second nature that takes over and I often find myself looking back over images afterwards almost unaware in the moment exactly what I captured, if that makes sense. I'm more than aware of what I'm attempting to create, but in the moment there's not always an aggressive level of focus. I find too much pressure placed in the moment makes for less organic imagery.

6. Which photographers influence you?

If I had to pick my biggest influence overall it would undoubtedly be Kenneth Josephson. Though I am also a major fan of Michael Kenna, Francesca Woodman, Andres Gursky and Robert Capa. Josephson's influence is clear, and his ties to the Chicago/Midwestern photo scene has always drawn me to his work. While Francesca Woodman has been a major influence on my more recent works revolving around Mental Health, though I've studied her work for years.

I also find a lot of inspiration from Minimalism and Street Photography, but I wouldn't pin that down to a single artist as much as the movement as a whole.

7. What technology do you use? software/cameras/etc.

I've only ever owned Canon cameras, and from my first days in film photography they are what I've always worked with. Currently when shooting digitally I primarily shoot with a Canon 60D, though I may be upgrading next year. I do work with film photography still, and when I do I tend to use a Canon AE-1. I also have a mixture of Canon lenses. As far as software I use Photoshop, and occasionally Lightroom/Bridge. I try to do as little post-production as possible when working with (most of) my projects.

8. Have you ever been "stuck" not knowing where to go or what to do next? If so, how did you get "unstuck"?

I have been stuck on several occasions, and I feel it's a very common experience in the art world. Motivation is seldom universal, and sometimes it doesn't arrive during the most opportune times. For me I have found it's beneficial to have several projects to focus on. Having multiple outlets allows me to not feel so discouraged when I come to a roadblock with one of my projects, as I know I can leave it for a bit and return to it refreshed. Though I know not all people operate as such, having a desire, if not need, to have their hands in many separate ideas simultaneously. I also find it to be helpful to just grab my camera and wander, seeing what I can find. When I started shooting 15 years ago that was what I was always doing, so it's almost a way of getting back to where it all began and that tends to reinvigorate me.

9. What keeps you motivated?

Simply put a need and desire for progress, a need/desire to connect with others, and proving to myself that I can stay persistent and go beyond any previous personally-constructed limitations/doubts. Coming from Iowa, an area about as removed from the world of Fine Art as one can be, I've always felt like I had something to prove or fight against. Showcasing the artistic beauty and expressive authenticity that can grow from seemingly vacant areas, and using my art as a way to be the voice/vision I needed in my youth also help keep me motivated and moving forward.

10. What are your top goals as a fine art photographer?

I've actually surpassed a lot of my goals I set for myself in my college years, but at this point my major goal is to be able to exhibit my work on a level where I no longer have to work a day job in addition to my fine art career. I am currently working in a photographic position, so it could be worse, but to "quit the day job" to focus only on my art I think is the big tangible goal.

My other continual goal, in a perceptually-based sense, is to showcase imagery which evokes a level of detachment subtle enough for most people to connect with and through that connection prove on a perceptual level just how related we actually are.


80/35 2019

80/35 invaded downtown Des Moines again July 12th/13th, and while the festival was set-up slightly differently this year it didn't hinder any attendees, and if anything only made for a better experience overall. The changes were pretty clear, with new stages/stage placement, which made for navigating the grounds slightly confusing before arrival, there we a lot of great improvements. Including 2 ticketed stages allowed for shorter times between bands, and a shorter travel between the 2 stages as we bounced between bands all weekend. Additionally this year the IPR sessions had an actual stage as opposed to the tent they've been presented from in recent years. While the striped down sets were appealing, it was great to see additional sets by bands in a more complete sense, especially considering it allowed you to see performances by bands you couldn't see during other set times, as many bands played 2 stages during their Friday/Saturday commitments.

Arriving Friday we made our way through the alleys across from the Sculpture Park to gain access to the volunteer headquarters where I received my credentials, and we stretched our legs in the early July heat after a non-stop 3 hour drive west from Davenport. After a quick rendezvous at the hotel, 7 blocks from the Main Stage, we arrived in time to check out Cedar Falls based Hex Girls. Their energetic rock was a great way to kick off the weekend, and it helped get me into the shooting groove I'd need to carry me through the next 40 hours. Their set came to a close and after a brief Dumpling/Brussel Sprouts break we made our move into the ticketed area to take in Murder By Death's set. I got the chance to see MBD in Iowa City a decade ago, and was thrilled to see their name on this year's lineup announcement. They brought their Western tinged Alternative Rock to a very engaged crowd, mixing in new songs with classics such as one of my favorites, "Until Morale Improves, The Beatings Will Continue." And while their set occurred at 6 Friday, the cooler of festival days, much of the crowd took in the set with their feet beneath the flow of the man-made waterway that cuts across the park. This is a common view at 80/35, and the newly added second ticketed stage was placed perfectly to allow festival goers to cool themselves off while still holding onto a great view of the action unfolding on stage.

Murder by Death came to a close, supplying us just enough time to make our way across the grass to the Main Stage and Metric. I've been a fan of Metric for more than a decade, and they were in my top 3 favorite sets of the entire weekend. Front-woman Emily Haines is fierce, and she truly controlled the crowd while she traveled across the stage and helped fill the air with the electronic punk/alternative sounds of this Canadian quartet. I couldn't pull myself from their set, or my camera for that matter, and found myself shooting periodically through the entirety of their performance. However the heat was getting to us, and we needed a quick retreat to the hotel to refresh ourselves before returning to experience Elle King, Friday night's headliner.

I'm about as familiar with Elle as one can be without intentionally searching out her music. Of course some of her work has been unavoidable in recent years, however I'd have to say I'm still more familiar with her father's career. With all that being said, her set was very impressive, and was far bluesier, and raw than I ever would have anticipated. Her voice resonated through the faceless windows of the long closed businesses which stretch out and surround the festival, and the band which backed her shined in their own right. A great close to night one, but as the crowd spilled out into the street, making their way in sporadic direction towards the various after-parties, we knew we were in for much more the following day.

Saturday arrived quickly, bringing with it some blistering temperatures. After a quick, practically required, stop through Fong's to get in some late morning slices and specialty mimosas we found our way back to the newly added 2nd ticketed stage to see Dressy Bessy share their alternative sound before we planned on checking out the newest festival addition, Dessa. I caught someone standing off to the side of the stage wearing a Sebadoh shirt, which was highly fitting for the tone which Dressy Bessy presented.

Dessa graced the main stage just after 3, replacing Noname, who had to recently cancel her entire tour, including the 80/35 appearance. Dessa definitely didn't disappoint, taking time to address the crowd on several occasions as the midday heat crashed her band's computer more than once. However everyone was very understandable, and after some quick work from the stage crew the computer was up and running and Dessa was back on track to supply the crowd with her personal yet infectious blend of hip hop and pop music. After Dessa the main stage was taken over by the iconic, Liz Phair. Liz had some limitations with her set, so I wasn't able to capture any of the event, however it was a nice break from shooting and I took the time to just take in the set with my camera packed away.

After Liz Phair's set came to a close we pushed through the crowd, and after a brief break to shoot photos of a contortionist performing between stages, we found ourselves back at the free stage where Hex Girls first opened the night before to take in another Iowa-based band, Des Moines' own Druids. Druids is not the sound I traditionally find myself standing in front of, but I've seen them at 80/35 in the past and I definitely didn't want to miss their set. The energy they supply is always welcome, and it was a great change of pace from the other acts we saw at the festival. It was a great counterbalance to refresh ourselves before the final two acts of the day, Open Mike Eagle, and Portugal. The Man.

Open Mike Eagle was the final act on the 2nd ticketed stage, and he put on a performance that was easily my 2nd favorite of the entire fest. We had spotted him the night before at Wooly's for the Emily Haines DJ set after party, but I never expected him to fill some time on stage Saturday performing a freestyle touching on several points of the festival, dropping names of other performers, streets around the city, and even referencing the after party from the night prior where we had witnessed him at the ticket booth. His deeply personal and vulnerably revealing lines were truly absorbed/felt as the ground and atmosphere carried his down-tempo energy through the crowd. While we grew up in drastically different situations/worlds, we undeniably share common ground in way of perspective, and I've been unable to pull myself from his music/expression in the 10 days following his performance.

The festival came to a close with a performance from Portugal. The Man unlike one I've ever seen before. The set began with Zachary Carothers, P.TM's bassist, introducing Larry Yazzie, a member of Iowa's Meskawki Nation, after first explaining how members of the band are originally from Alaska and recognize the significance of Native people/cultures, and as such wanted to include someone from the local native people to showcase/share in some of their traditions. Larry came out and performed a traditional dance to a highly welcoming crowd. His moves were intense and the energy in the air was truly palpable. Larry's performance brought a wall of cheers from the crowd as the photo pit erupted with action, and I moved through the others covering the event like a cell in an ever closing artery. Larry's performance was greatly enjoyed by all in attendance, and while taking a break from shooting briefly I watched as he filmed the band and crowd with a smile, showing he was enjoying the night just as much (if not more) than those that had just watched his rhythmic motions 10 min prior. P.TM had my favorite performance of the weekend, but having the opportunity to see/shoot the performance Larry put on was definitely one of the weekend's top moments.

Portugal. The Man has been one of my favorites since the very final days of high school, and having the ability to shoot them (now more than a week ago) is a real high point of my 2019. When I first saw P.TM they were opening a "metal show" (The Fall of Troy, Horse The Band, and/or some other various Equal Vision artists) and I'm not even sure if their first album, Waiter You Vultures, had yet been released. I was familiar with one song, but the crew I went with was not a fan of the sound, opting to instead share the company of the other smokers outside. They played to a rather vacant Gabe’s that night, yet here we are more than a decade later and they are headlining the biggest festival our state offers and I watched as the pulsing crowd sang along to every word. Not to mention after Larry's show, the band had a custom Beavis and Butthead introduction, truly showcasing how large they have become. They certainly deserve the attention they are now receiving. Their performance was phenomenal, and while I'd have loved to hear some songs from the pre-American Ghetto days, coming back for the encore to play a medley of "Sleep Forever-Plastic Soldiers-Hey Jude." was a treat I never expected and a great close to the festival.

As the crowds pushed out into the humid streets of downtown Des Moines in a mess of motion, we stood in the grass still digesting what we had witnessed. Slowly we too made the walk from the park towards the hotel which had truly become our home, complete with posters and side tables which doubled as coolers, and spent the evening decompressing atop a partially closed parking garage, watching the city fold in on itself amid the gold resonance of the capital dome and the distant blue glow of a pool hidden from view by those that share its elevation.

06/06-06/09: A Weekend retrospective Featuring Ani Difranco, My First Museum Exhibit, and $10+ spent on balloons for a single shoot.

June rushed in full of excitement, promising new experiences and anxious withdrawal much the same. After the Sleep show at Codfish on the 2nd, I returned on the 6th for Ani Difranco, a show and crowd about as much of a change from the vibe of Sleep 4 days prior as one could imagine. Ani is a grammy winning artist, backed by a band which includes Todd Sickafoose, a recent Tony-Winner himself, so it was certainly an honor to be able to shoot their performance, and take it in pressed right up against the stage.

Diane Patterson opened the show and was the perfect complement for Ani. Her set was a real treat. After Diane left, Ani came to the stage and completely lit the barn up. The crowd danced and cheered as she fed into their warm energy, and I seldom see someone so openly and undeniably enjoying every minute performing on the humid early-June stage of this barn perched so perfectly outside of Maquoketa. This show was one of my favorites, and I'm forever grateful for having the opportunity to document all the events that unfold at Codfish Hollow, and truly feeling like a piece of this slice of East Iowa heaven, albeit a very, very small piece. Codfish is my favorite venue, and your life will surely not be the same after attending a show there. This night was memorable to say the least, and as has become a trend we purchased a CD and the sounds of Ani Difranco kept us company while we made the late night trek down 61 back to the QCA; a drive that has become such a common occurrence over the past year, and one I'll surely make a lot more before the year comes to a close.

However Thursday was only the beginning, and Friday afternoon I found myself traveling North on 61 yet again. Though this time the final destination was Dubuque, and more specifically the Dubuque Museum of Art (A Smithsonian Affiliate). We were making this trek because an image of mine was selected to be featured in DUMA's 2019 Biennial exhibition. This was a very special, overwhelmingly clarifying event, and I'm thrilled to be a part of the exhibit with so many other genuinely talented artists. While events like this tend to provide me connection and alienation all the same, and I always find myself a bit uncertain in such professional moments, these experiences are rewarding in ways I can't really comprehend. Expression has become so natural to me and as such it would be occurring whether it garnered attention or not, so it's difficult at times to digest my actions as anything admirable, but nights/accomplishments like that make it harder to question myself/my work as I tend to do. The image selected comes from my project, "In The Waiting Room (Somewhere Being Clarified Well-Being and Cognitive Dissonance)" which focuses on the various abstract aspects of dealing with mental health, and it's amazing to find such connection through a piece heavily influenced by alienation and holding oneself back. It was nice to interact a bit with some other local artists/board members and explain the meaning behind the work. (Call 563-293-3758 52# to hear me explain the meaning/influence behind the piece)

Please go check out all the art in this exhibit before it closes in September. There's some truly breathtaking work, and my photo is on the first wall you see when walking into the exhibit, so you can't miss it! Major thanks again to DUMA for putting this on, and to juror Sarah Humphreville for selecting one of my pieces for inclusion in this exhibit.

Side Note: What you can't see is just to the right of where my image is displayed the room opens into another little room which houses work by Renoir, Degas, and Grant Wood. So at this moment I now have work mere steps from some masters I learned about in elementary school, and the artist that school was named after. Life is beautifully peculiar.

Now Thursday/Friday supplied more than enough excitement to carry me through the weekend, however this was my first weekend in a month where I found myself essentially free/in town both Saturday and Sunday, so I took advantage of the warm/sunny afternoon and shot several more images for "In The Waiting Room". The project is taking off and garnering quite a deal of attention so I have to make sure I keep a steady output for future proposals, some of which are being submitted this week.

This shoot first took place on a rather vacant road where the tar being heated by the early afternoon sun was so soft we were leaving footprints all across the road. We then made our way to a poison-ivy lined gravel expanse just south of the bubbled tar and got a couple shots I’m really excited about that involved the use of balloons, which cost me more than $10. I often question my purchases, but have no trouble spending more on balloons for a single shoot than I would on lunch for myself, but anything for the sake of expression I suppose. I'll be updating this site very soon with these new images, so keep checking back. There will actually be a big update coming soon, as I've been really busy as of late, and for the first time ever I have created new pieces in all of my ongoing projects, as well as capturing several new unassigned images within a matter of 3 weeks. Add that into the fact that all of this was accomplished while also working full time, submitting new proposals, and shooting 10 shows 3 cities/2 states. Somehow I still don't feel like I do enough. I'm a glutton for self-punishment

Sleep and Big Business at Codfish Hollow

Sleep was a band I was familiar with yet naive to all the same, however after the experience I was thrust into this past Sunday, they made damn sure I wouldn't forget who they were. I've seen a wide array of performances at Codfish Hollow, from classic folk and Americana to post-hardcore, fuzzed-out grunge, and even comedy, however nothing quite on the level of Sleep had graced that reinforced wooden stage perched so perfectly amid the Iowa Countryside. This show was more than half sold out 30 min after tickets went on sale, and were easily sold out completely before that first day came to a close. I've seen several sold out shows within these walls, including one only a week prior, but nothing that sold out quick so quickly, so I knew there'd be a great mass of people moving along the sun-bathed hill and art-filled spaces which surround this newly shingled barn, and we were surely greeted by one of the most blatantly sold out events I've shot upon these grounds. The showed opened with Big Business, a duo that also makes up the rhythm section of The Melvins. I had never seen Big Business, but am a major fan of drummer Coady Willis' other band The Murder City Devils, so I was excited to see what BB brought to the table. I was certainly not disappointed, as this duo destroyed the stage, with Willis' performance being a real highlight of the night, but if you're looking for a sound more akin to The Murder City Devils this is not where you're going to find it.

Sleep then took the stage, surrounded by an absolute wall of amps. Dinosaur Jr. has performed at Codfish on several occasions, leaving many in attendance with brief bouts of tinnitus, but when arriving we had been warned Sleep's sound check went above and beyond what J. Mascis and crew provided less than a year prior. With camera in hand and ear plugs in, which I had neglected to use at the aforementioned Dinosaur Jr. show, I took my place, legs pressed right up to the stage. We were allowed 10 minutes to capture Sleep and the shutter was firing rapidly as the band sludged through the first half of their first song. The trip from stage to outside is never the most welcome event, however it usually occurs between songs when the crowd is slightly less engaged. However the nature of Sleep's definitive doom metal sound results in rather long songs and so I was forced to fight the crowd during the rush of the opening song these throes of individuals had been waiting weeks to see. After a few quick additional shots from the surprisingly vacant sound booth I was free to take in the rest of the show with my camera out of sight, and it was nice to take that break and simply take in the show after spending the last 2 weeks of May shooting nearly 10 shows in 4 cities.

Codfish never fails to disappoint whether I'm seeing a bucket-list band or I'm witnessing a group after only hearing their name for the first time a few minutes prior. And I heard a lot of discussion from people at their first Codfish event, hoping to return, and hoping similar acts come through the doors. And while such acts haven't been commonplace at the barn in the past, after this response, I can't imagine this will be the last time such an act finds itself up on that stage.

...Dreaming of My Demise Amid The Dawning Anniversary of My Initial Inception

...And I had a dream that I died, though I cannot recall how it felt. There was an awareness of space, however I had no ability to discern whether that space surrounded me or truly became me in some distant process I cannot completely comprehend. And while no sound arrived to break the silence stretching beyond my own process of thought, I find myself amid a revelatory morning dissecting the rhythms which paint the soundtrack of the aforementioned experience.

And it's beautifully peculiar the way which one's expression can arrive unannounced and previously unknown in ways which places meaning into the moment where true movement occupies the waning mid-morning hours where coffee stains climb the walls while our eyes chase the sun from a confined comfort we're convinced is genuine if not truly necessary.

So we pass one another upon the shared expanse, like two docked vessels in motion, aware that forms of one another exist yet still unaware of each other's true existence. Yet here we sporadically come together as one, immediately aware of exactly how much we've needed one another, even if only for the sake of not feeling so stagnant within the fleeting humidity of a delayed summer swell.

And in a flash we transcend from naivety to real need. 
A need void of reliance, and that is a truly beautiful thing.
Desires need not possess dependence
Passions need not require definition
Conscientiousness (or lack there of) need not insist upon a title
And we need not to be anything beyond ourselves
For truly discovering ourselves is in of itself a reason to live.

Lost Somewhere in Between the Immediacy of Artificial Heat and the Encouragement of Actual Warmth.

…I have been having these dreams of moving out east. Out beyond the leaves holding recognizable hues, out beyond the highways with recognizable numbers, out beyond all the cities where I recognize those who speak of home. How I long for that feeling of truly being exposed to exactly how lost we are—seeing exactly how minute we are in relation to the atoms that built themselves up in ways we pay others to comprehend. And I imagine it’s similar to the way astronauts reevaluate the meaning of existence once they absorb enough space, or the ways which we pretend to change after seeing the same views on a far less magnified and personal scale. But we are victims of a constant need to feel involved, a constant need to feel as if we are “with it,” while we fail to ever add discernible definition to what “it” is. We seem convinced that it exists, and I suppose that sometimes that is enough. I’m just not convinced that there is strength to be discovered in holding strong to beliefs while failing to apply that same blind faith to ourselves, because weakness can be hidden in ways this dimension has yet to expose us to, and incorrect exposure can remove all details regardless if you’re looking at the light or succumbing to the shadows. But sometimes we must locate the gallows for the sake of recognizing them if we happen to meet in the future. Because the ugliest pictures can be held by the most alluring frames, and the clearest framing can hold the blurriest of imagery.

And it’s always so difficult to continue to begin without feeling forced, without feeling cliché, as though every introduction I speak is composed of the same exact number and make-up of consonants and vowels, leaving me to reorganize a single ideology until a new meaning falls down to alleviate the drought our minds experience when the morning rises a bit quicker than we can. Because the nights are so misleading once the hours spill into the oncoming days and we’re left to battle our senses with the veiled intrigue of a life with the light pulled out. But the light exists beyond the sun, beyond the perception of the sun, beyond the vacant definition of light that narrates the shadows we’ve locked in our closet through the summer months.

And I’m lost again in the way these artificial sources illuminate your collar bones against the skeletal skyline we see but seldom recall with the frequency of more prideful beings. So I begin pulling at inspiration, the reminders of love lost and losses once held revisited for the sake of discovering a rise from the downfall, for the sake of reminding myself that things aren’t nearly as cynical as I made them appear through those frozen months when I buried my feet beneath the earth for the sake of feeling universal motion in an involuntarily localized way. I recall nights bent backwards upon the front step, staring east while my dreams settle along the fractures of a once untamed west, a west pockmarked by human-made steel peaks and mounds made and occupied by the men the peaks were long ago stolen from. They lay beneath the dirt they can barely claim ownership for, a reminder of the death that took down individuals who likely lived in a capacity our minds can hardly fathom. The expanse of land begets an expanse in perspective, and a means of consistent survival revokes a need for unnecessary anxieties to overtake the psyche. Worry seems less significant when such a focus on actually living is a requirement. We’ve become numb to life, committing too distinctly to these supposed realities, failing to truly recognize that reality is nothing more than a word, a self-defined ordering of letters which has only the depth you supply it with, and which will always fall short of the true depth possessed by a world shared objectively, but viewed subjectively, with experience falling somewhere in between.

So I’m revisiting those smoke-filled rooms where we pinned the constellations along the stains that recall the stories we’ll admire for years despite any true admirable qualities existing in the moment. It’s odd the way nostalgia misconstrues our conversations when we allow the present to revoke the past at nearly every occasion. I’m losing my thoughts to the rhythm, as the tempo of the music spills incongruously in relation to the processes my mind relies upon in the early morning hours. And I know how easily I could return to our conversations, to pull lines directly from the blueprints that built connection from communication, but there's some beauty to be found in leaving those ideas where they sit, from knowing there exists in these moments revolutions that only we can recollect.

Because there’s something intriguing about lost art which haunts you to this day despite only a single viewing. There's something alluring about leaving words in the dark for the melody of them being spoken is enough to light our way through dreams pulling teeth from the patterns. These patterns transfix my subconscious on conscious means and I become lost somewhere in between the two realms. It’s as if I lose the defining line that brings cancer in from the tropics, rearranging my perspective like the oncoming front of a storm outlining a weather system I have no firsthand experience with. But if rain is merely water, then perhaps I can swallow enough of the swell to avoid a premature induction to the sea. Perhaps I can combat the rise that comes to fill in the caverns I’ve built in the present to keep the memories from so many nights before beneath the ground I keep pacing into a more submissive pose. And I’m not so convinced I desire this level of submissiveness or simply look to imprint upon the land that which I’ve already imprinted upon myself so many absent years ago with the belief that if I can feel the naivety these breathing buildings represent then maybe I can allow people beyond this self-imposed security to move about my body in a way which leads us to believe that this is all but unnatural. Because these organs don’t play along with my destructive ways, and the destruction seems to birth a greater deterioration at the scene until I’m inhaling past carbon for the sake of feeling alive, for the sake of still feeling combustible, for the sake of keeping my illumination through shorter days, colder thoughts, and nights that we still feel so deeply in our bones.