On May 12 of this year, I’ll have completed 70 trips around the sun.
But it only seems like…?
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I can’t keep them.
I probably could if I took them seriously. But at my age, taking things seriously—like a New Year’s resolution—has gotten a lot harder to do, and I think I know why.
As you age, your outlook on life changes. You begin to realize you’re not going to live forever, and you can’t take anything with you when you leave. Those two hard facts are the only things I take seriously.
Seriously though…
My family, friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and my photography—along with my recent return to vinyl records and tape listening—are things I place great value on. But I can’t take any of them with me either when I check out.
When the credits play, remember that they were written by me.
Probably too many to count. Painting comes immediately to mind as one of the most celebrated art forms. In fact, when I think of an artist, I picture painters like Da Vinci, Degas, Dalí, and van Gogh, among others. I never truly considered photography an art form—at least not until recently.
I joined f.64 Elite one year ago this past June, and doing so has completely changed how I make photographs. It’s also been a journey toward finding my inner artist—both in photography and in music.
I still struggle to define exactly what my vision is when I create a photo or compose a song. Most of the time, I don’t fully recognize my artistic vision until days, weeks, or even years after the work is made.
It’s during the editing process that the muse speaks—directing and guiding my eyes to see, and bending my ears to listen—for the artistic vision I know is hidden somewhere within my work.
Once I find it, I shape it into what I want you to see and hear: a subtle tone shift while playing Dm on my acoustic guitar, or a shift in hues between orange and brown in an image from Badlands National Park.
When all’s said and done, the viewer or listener may shape their own vision when gazing at my photo or hearing my composition—and that’s as it should be. Because one artistic vision can have many interpretations, but dare I say… only one creator?
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.
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.
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.
That I placed my fingers and hand around the neck of a guitar long before they touched the shutter button on a camera. My guitar has always been close at hand and it’s been with me everywhere. Including 300 feet under the Meditterranean Sea during my time as a sonar technician on a nuclear submarine. If my guitar could talk (it does, but not like us) I’d probably have a lot of explaining to do and nobody would believe me.
The camera is a relatively new instrument to my hands and fingers and I’m still learning how to “play” it. Having started my photography journey past the age of 60, it’s much harder to learn because of the Grim Reaper’s curse on my prefrontal cortex. I am taking the advice of my mentor Blake Rudis: “Combat this with: DELIBERATE and ROUTINE PRACTICE. REPETITION, PERSISTENCE, and CONCENTRATION.”
My guitar knows me well enough that such routine practice sessions with it are more like performances. The camera hasn’t known me long enough to perform like my guitar. If only my guitar could communicate on some metaphysical level with my camera and let it know that I’m a little slower at learning things these days.
Perhaps both instruments working together could cure my condition with a miraculous song, frozen in time and captured in a photograph.
I never have made a decent video of myself playing guitar and singing. I have a very nice studio setup to do it but keep shying away from actually making it happen. Why?
I’m sure everyone’s heard of “imposter syndrome.” It’s that nagging feeling of self-doubt, like I don’t truly deserve to be where I am or that I’ll somehow be “found out” as an undeserving rookie at playing guitar and/or making photos. I’ve even sold a few photos here and there and played in several local bands that are and were quite popular.
But I still can’t shake the thought that maybe I just got lucky or don’t belong. It’s a common struggle, especially among high achievers, and it can creep in no matter how much experience or success you have.
The Nike slogan says “just do it.” But if I just do it will I do it in such a way that makes me feel like I didn’t “just do it?” I suppose there’s only one way to find out. Maybe today’s the day that I just do it!
Framing the Sound 