Photography and music are the two most important pursuits in my life—though calling them “hobbies” doesn’t quite do them justice. They both demand focus, creativity, and time. And while I’d love to do them simultaneously, that’s not exactly possible (though it would be pretty great if it were). Finding enough time for each is always a challenge.
It’s been a little over a month since returning home from our Epic Journey West, and I still haven’t been out with my camera. My Martin D-28 has stayed in its case, untouched. Most of my time has gone into culling (and editing a few) photos from the four National Parks we visited. I took more than 1,700 images—many duplicates (I shot nearly 100 frames of the iconic Moulton Barn in Jackson Hole), a few out of focus, and some that just didn’t work.
This winter, I’m hoping to finally finish the culling process and carve out some time to pick up my guitar again—maybe even do a little recording with my two sons.
I’ve also been dedicating time to take part in Blake Rudis’s Vision Session video series. My session is the final one in a set of six and will be available for f.64 Elite members to view in December. The Vision Session series will continue into 2026, featuring more members and their creative journeys.
I plan to share a detailed post soon about The Vision Sessions and why they matter. Consider subscribing so you won’t miss it!
View from inside the Chapel of the Transfiguration, Teton County, Wyoming
I’m trying to be a lot more precise with how I edit my photos. Why? Because I’m a visionary!
Well, actually, I’m just an artist—photographer and musician—creating photos and music with a vision in mind: how I want my picture to look or how I want my original song to sound.
Since joining f.64Elite back in June of 2023 and taking one of the member courses, Discovering Your Vision, I’ve become much more aware of how a viewer or listener might perceive my art.
One important point needs to be understood when people look at or listen to my work: the vision I had when I created it might be very different from theirs. And that’s perfectly fine.
But I don’t change my original vision—unless…
Unless the muse demands it.
Moulton Barn, Grand Tetons—a melody of wood, mountain, and cloud.
For the first time, I’m facing the monumental task of culling over 1,700 landscape and nature photos.
Our epic journey west to four National Parks ended on September 19, and by the 22 we were back home in western PA. I hope to have my selection of “keeper” photos completed sometime soon.
I’ve culled hundreds of wedding photos before, but deleting landscapes, wildlife, and the raw grandeur of Badlands, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, and Glacier feels like erasing memories themselves.
The beauty we saw defies words. If you’ve ever stood in a National Park, you know that feeling — the impossible task of translating vast horizons and wild silence into language.
Once I’ve chosen my best images, the next step is shaping them with my artistic vision — a skill I’m still learning, still refining. That same vision will also flow into my music, as I compose, record, and produce in my home studio.
I’m an aging artist, framing both sound and image, chasing the vision of making everything I create more impactful for you — the viewer, the listener.
We have returned from our visit to four National Parks. I will be writing about it here very soon so if you’re not subscribed, please consider doing so and you’ll get notified as soon as that post goes live.
I never set out to be that person. You know the one—the person who swoops into a conversation with a “Well, actually…” tucked in their back pocket like it’s a party trick. The person who cares just a little too much about the difference between “less” and “fewer.” The person who can’t help but notice that the band’s song intro was two measures shorter than the studio version. Yeah. That person.
The funny part is, half the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ll comment on how a photo instructor edits the photos he critiques a little differently than how he shows in his photo editing courses. That’s when it hits me: oh no, I’ve wandered into pedant territory again.
What’s a Pedant, Anyway?
The official definition is something like: a person who is excessively concerned with minor details or rules. Doesn’t that sound delightful? Okay, not really. But here’s the thing—I think there are flavors of pedantry. Not all pedants are insufferable know-it-alls correcting everyone’s photo editing workflow like it’s an Olympic sport. Some of us are just detail-oriented folks whose passion for the little things leaks out into everyday life.
For me, it shows up in the creative stuff. Photography, music, writing—they all invite a kind of obsessive attention to detail. Sometimes that means noticing an unusual editing method no one else would ever notice. Sometimes it means fussing over a guitar tone until I’ve spent more time tweaking knobs than actually playing. Sometimes it’s rephrasing a blog sentence four times until it “flows just right.”
The Good and the Not-So-Good
Being a pedant has its perks. Let’s be honest: someone’s gotta care about the details. Without pedants, typos would run wild, guitar strings would be out of tune, and photo edits would look like clown vomit.
But the shadow side is real, too. Pedantry can shrink the big picture down to a single nit we’re busy picking. It can make conversations stall, creative work feel suffocating, and even the fun stuff lose its spark. Nobody wants to be around someone who turns every casual chat into a grammar seminar. (Okay, maybe other pedants do. But still.)
Laughing at Myself
What I’m learning is this: the trick isn’t to stop being pedantic—it’s to catch myself early and not take it so seriously. If someone says “literally” when they mean “figuratively,” it’s not a crime against language. If a fellow photograher uses an “all over the place” editing method, the world keeps turning. And if I over-polish a blog post… well, at least it’s shiny.
At the end of the day, pedantry is really just caring about the details a little too much. Which isn’t the worst flaw in the world—as long as I can laugh at myself when I catch that “Well, actually…” creeping up again.
So here’s my modest proposal: let’s all give our inner pedants a hug, then politely ask them to sit down. Then thank the photographer that reminds us of our flaw. Life’s bigger than a misplaced comma or a photo editing workflow that flows all over the place.
It’s been a dream of ours for years to head west and finally experience some of our country’s most breathtaking national treasures. We had planned to make the trip back in 2020, but like so many others, our travel plans were put on hold when Covid-19 changed the world.
This time, the adventure begins in Cleveland, where we’ll see Alison Krauss in concert. Her music feels like the perfect soundtrack to set the tone for wide skies, mountain air, and days on the road ahead.
From there, we’ll drive west for a couple of days until reaching our first destination: Badlands National Park. I’ve always been fascinated by its otherworldly landscapes—jagged peaks, layered rock, and endless horizons that seem designed for a camera lens.
Next, we’ll journey on to three more iconic parks: Yellowstone, Grand Teton, and Glacier National Parks. Each holds its own promise: the geothermal wonders and wildlife of Yellowstone, the sharp, rugged beauty of the Tetons, and Glacier’s towering peaks and pristine alpine lakes
As a photographer, I couldn’t be more excited. I’m sure I’ll come home with plenty of photos—some that immediately carry vision and others that will need time to reveal their meaning. Those quieter images will wait with me through the long, cold Northeast winter, offering me the chance to reflect and discover the vision I might have missed in the moment.
Before “open mic night” was the thing where you nervously clutch a guitar (or your courage) while waiting for your name to be called, it was just a microphone in a coffeehouse, open to whoever dared step up. The tradition grew out of the 1950s–60s folk revival — places like Greenwich Village’s Café Wha? and The Gaslight Café, where singer-songwriters could play a couple songs, pass the hat, and maybe get noticed. By the 1970s, comedy clubs borrowed the idea, giving stand-up hopefuls a shot in front of real, often merciless, audiences. Fast-forward to today, and open mics have sprawled into every kind of venue imaginable — bars, bookstores, breweries, even Zoom rooms — still serving up that same unpredictable mix of brilliance, awkwardness, and “what just happened?” that keeps both performers and audiences coming back.
And here’s where my love/hate thing kicks in. On the love side, there’s nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of playing to a room full of strangers who are actually listening. You can feel the collective heartbeat of the crowd, even if it’s only twelve people sipping lattes or nursing craft beers. There’s the thrill of meeting other performers — swapping stories, guitar picks, or mutual encouragement in the corner while someone on stage is absolutely nailing it.
But then… there’s the hate side. The sound guy disappears mid-song. The guy ahead of you does a 12-minute free-form harmonica solo. The crowd thins to just the bartender and your cousin by the time you finally get called. And let’s not forget the mic that smells faintly of beer breath and mystery.
Still, for all the unpredictability — the good, the bad, and the baffling — those nights left their mark. Somewhere between the awkward silences and the magic moments, I learned that open mics aren’t just about performing. They’re about belonging to this oddball little tribe of people who can’t help but put themselves out there, one shaky song or risky joke at a time.
So maybe that’s why, even though I don’t go to open mic nights anymore, I still think about them. They were messy, unpredictable, and occasionally ego-bruising, but they were also where the sparks happened. Where I learned to roll with a dead mic, win over a distracted crowd, and sometimes, just sometimes, surprise myself. Love them or hate them, open mics are a reminder that art isn’t meant to stay safe at home; it’s meant to be shared, out loud, in all its imperfect glory.
It has such a negative connotation to it doesn’t it? I never think a positive thought when thinking about neglect. From where I stand, as an artist, the word is truly a bit discombobulating. So, I asked Nova (that’s ChatGPT, but I got his [its/their] permission and approval to call him Nova, he likes it) to offer a definition of “neglect” from an artists’ perspective. This is what Nova had to say.
“From an artist’s point of view, neglect is the quiet abandonment of potential—a canvas left untouched, a vision unpursued, or a creative voice silenced by distraction or doubt. It’s not always intentional, but its effects are corrosive, allowing inspiration to fade and expression to wither. In this light, neglect isn’t just passive; it’s a slow erosion of what could have been art.”
And yet, my neglect on blog updates can be justified using only one word:
CANCER
Not me, but my 43-year old daughter.
I’ll quote my dear friend from across the Big Pond, he explains the “fight” much better than I.
“I hate calling it a fight or a battle as that suggests there’s a loser. Nobody loses and nobody wins. You either survive or you don’t. And not surviving isn’t failing or losing. It just happens sometimes.”
Camera and chords; two different subjects but one love for both. That’s my dilemma (it’s not really).
I’ve been strummin a six-string guitar for over 50 years. My time pressin the shutter on a camera started around 20 years ago. I never thought photography would overtake my love of playin acoustic guitar.
I wish I could say that I’ve played guitar in bands for most of those 50 years but I can’t. I’d guess 10 years, give or take, is about all the time I spent playin in bands. I still wonder where I’d be if, IF I had somehow managed to make a career of it. Not so much as a rock star, just a guitarist playin gigs, and earning enough for survival. And maybe, just maybe havin a chance to play with a national act once or twice.
I also wonder what a career as a photographer might’ve brought. A chance to meet Ansel Adams or Diane Arbus? Perhaps. I’ve made a few dollars shootin a weddin or three and a few senior photo sessions for friends have been profitable. I made a weak attempt at startin a photography business but was immediately discouraged by the amount of time and effort required for self-promotion and gave up.
So, I guess you could say I did what the average(?) American white male does – they either get a job right out of high school (I’m a Baby Boomer by the way), or they quit school and join the Navy. I missed the proverbial bus that might’ve carried me to a career in music or photography.
In retirement now I spend time enjoyin both. They’re much loved hobbies, and every so often, I’ll make a few dollars at a gig or from a print. And that’s fine with me because I think doin what you love in retirement is just as enjoyable as the career might have been.
That’s my dad on the left holdin the guitar, not sure of the year but lets just say it was a long time ago.That’s me on the left, playin djembe with a couple of close friends.Self-portrait, 2019, Winter.
I get that quite often from my wife when I suggest most any decorating idea. And this goes for outside decorations too, places she has flower beds are off limits to any planting idea I might present to her. “No, they’ll look like little soldiers lined up for inspection,” she’ll say when I suggest a row of zinnias here or there. Or, “No, hanging it that way doesn’t fit with how the rest of the room is decorated.”
There must be something wrong with how I look at things. I had my eyes checked this year and, yes, I needed new glasses. I was also told that I have cataracts, but they’re not quite bad enough yet for removal, or are they? Could that be the reason my deco ideas don’t carry much weight? I don’t think so.
I think it’s 34 years of marriage. Yes, that’s why I don’t have any interior/exterior decorating skills. But I decorated my recording studio all by myself. And I have a few garden beds where I can plant what I want, however I want.
I think my straight row of zinnias look nice, and so does the framed photo I have hanging “that way” on the wall in my studio. Even if I’m the only one who thinks so.
Framing the Sound 