I was in the cardiology waiting room for 45 minutes, while my mom was seen for a routine check up. Evidently 45 minutes lost in my thoughts is just the right amount of boredom to reach the goldilocks zone. A different kind of creative flow, without tools and materials. One that feels meditative, that you can only access without distraction, and only when you’re waiting - in line at the grocery store, in waiting rooms, in traffic and on long drives. It’s especially potent when you get that aggravating itch to pass the time, to look at your phone, to watch TV, or when you’re kicking yourself because you didn’t bring a book. The irony is how much of our life is spent hurrying from one waiting period to another.

How many times have you been cut off in traffic, only to be waiting at the same stoplight right behind the person who cut you off? We spend so much of our time rushing to wait. Saving time, only to have the exact same amount at the end of the day.

This is when I was overcome by a familiar sensation that I’d somehow forgotten. Like running into an old friend and picking up right where you left off. Regardless of the time that has passed, you don’t skip a beat. This was the sensation of being hyper aware of my own thoughts and how I experience time. I giggle to myself every time, thinking of the proverbial fish asking, “how’s the water?” David Foster Wallace’s words echoing in my mind, This is water. This is water. To be present is to experience that time, that boredom of waiting without distraction until you notice the nature of your own thoughts.

I was thinking about the many people who had come in and out of that same office in the short time I’ve been here. Objectively, the 45 minutes could have easily felt like an eternity, but this seemed to fly by. A by-product of experiencing deep time, when you lose track of it, when you don’t keep tabs, when two fish are swimming along and another, older fish passes them by and says, “Good morning boys, how’s the water?”. The two fish look at each other, and one says to the other, “what the hell is water?” Wallace’s words are such a gift, and a constant companion whenever I find myself waiting.

And it occurred to me that a waiting room is a sacred space.

I had several lovely interactions with visitors waiting to see the cardiologist. It was mostly small talk, but I was so deeply curious about the life they’ve all lived and how central our heart health (physically & emotionally) is to the quality of our life. Our entire lives are waiting rooms. We are waiting to die. We swim along in this life with no concept of water, filling it with distractions, jobs, relationships, tasks, hobbies, whatever we can to take our minds off the act of waiting, because waiting is uncomfortable, boring, and revealing.

All the other people here are appropriately 70-80 years old. My mom is only 55, with a pacemaker because she was born with a cumby hand of cards. Health span & life span are not the same thing, and I’d love to ask these people how alive they feel at this stage in life. Good or bad, one’s perspective on life is so prominent at that time, when we’re often less mobile. Although, I do think our physical mobility later in life is a reflection of how alive we feel about death, which is a reflection of our relationship with time, and of how we live our lives.

A reflection of how we experience waiting rooms.

There are people who age quickly, accept immobility and the pessimism that comes with it. Almost as though our frustration with waiting, with the passing of time, and our resistance to it ages us more quickly as passive participants. Because there are also people who find so much vibrancy and flavor in their later years. People who run, climb, dance and play well into their 80’s and beyond. The difference is these people are front row participants of life. Yes, there are obstacles, and unavoidable experiences, but health and wellness of the mind, body, and soul, are inextricably linked, with immense research concluding that happier people tend to live longer. Not that they haven’t faced a fair amount of adversity and stress induced cortisol, but that their relationship to it is different. They don’t distract themselves from boredom, or resist the ugly parts of life. They accept them. They lean in and let it wash over them. That’s what it means to go with the flow - not fighting against the current, but moving with it and enjoying the ride.

Death and the concept of time are both underlying themes in all of my work. These are things we often perceive as ugly and terrifying, but are also the constraints that provide meaning and beauty. Death and the concept of time are inevitable forces that are always present and coexisting, subconsciously driving our every action. The only thing that changes is our perspective, and therefore our experience, which is 100% adjustable. This is the great equalizer. Even if our experiences are unique, humans will always have more in common than they don’t.

To “hold space” for something means there is an opportunity to sit with and think about things we avoid, like death & the passing of time, which are unavoidable. My work professionally and artistically is experience based, aiming to create the kinds of opportunities that allow people to feel their feelings without shame, and get comfortable with vulnerability, so they can recognize their potential for living a full and deeply meaningful life. Even (especially) when they’re waiting. Because when we are presented with a choice of how to experience moments of prolonged boredom and frustration, we can alchemize that into a sacred moment or space.

Suffering is literally caused by our own resistance to reality. The more we resist those things, the worse we feel, but the more curious we can be about how powerfully death and time drive our creativity and search for meaning, the more pleasure than anxiety we feel about the blimp of existence we get.

Our relationship to the passing of our limited time affects everything, and is directly evidenced by how we feel when we wait - in lines, in traffic, waiting for our shift to end, or for the phone to ring. Our entire lives are spent waiting for the right time to ask, waiting for permission, waiting for other people to get their shit together, waiting to feel confident, waiting for our next paycheck, waiting for our package to arrive, waiting for inspiration to strike, waiting for our lunch break, the next inquiry, or for when we can unwind at the end of the day. Always counting down the seconds.

As much as we don’t like to think about death, as much as we don’t like to rush, as much as we don’t like to wait, time is always passing. We are only ever in the present moment. We are always in the waiting room. But that doesn’t mean we’re always living, because living is not the same as waiting.

Metaphorically, we are always waiting, but what gives it meaning is what we think and what we do while we wait. The quality of our thoughts, affects the quality of our feelings, which affects the quality of our experiences, and the actions we take. Which trickles down to affect the quality of our life.

Waiting without distraction reveals what you notice, and only then can you hear the song that solicits when your mind remains quiet, and open, to the possibility of deep meaning in every moment.

The concept of home is challenging for most creatives, I think.

At least for the soul lead & slowly crafted. The people who find themselves here, reading this.

We are thrust into the chaos of environments that provide immediate contrast. Ill-fitting or not, those early years are often spent discovering the need to find a home within ourselves. Learning and unlearning emotional autonomy over and over again, until, and after, we leave the nest.

When I was 10, I cut out this magazine clipping featuring Hunt Slonem, one of the few things I’ve actually kept through years of purging my shit. I remember thinking as soon as I laid eyes on the article, this was my home. From then on every sims house, every drawing, and the next chance I had to arrange my bedroom accompanied phthalo green walls, antique furniture and eclectic knickknacks.

My partner and I moved into this house a year and a half ago now, and I don’t remember life before it. I don’t remember life before him either, other than a relentless weight of always feeling undeserving. That if I had a nice home, if I surpassed the home I was brought up in, I would be perceived as a bad person. Echoing the reprimand that followed accidentally throwing away something useful in an overwhelming, routine cleaning frenzy before we had company. We called this white trash cleaning, where everything in sight was thrown into boxes and laundry baskets, then hidden away in every spare corner, closet and bedroom, to be forgotten. Although I’ve since found superficiality and hypocrisy often go hand in hand, dripping in unresolved shame.

Through no fault of anyone’s, it’s simply easier to villainize people who have what we want, leaving our deepest desires in the dust, afraid of our own potential. We inherit doubt and scarcity through our environment like language, when so much of our human experience cannot be described with words.

This space feels like a sacred self portrait that has been itching to come to life for decades. Itching for me to sing to it while I water my plants, gently thanking each piece of furniture for their patience. Afterall, they’ve been waiting far longer than I have, in cluttered shops, and dusty garages covered in cobwebs and leaves. Some of them hadn’t seen daylight in several years. Some of them worn by the elements, handcrafted by grandfathers, and treasured by the same family for centuries until the family was long gone, leaving their treasures abandoned in the skeletons of their homes.

I, too, will be long gone before I know it. The skeleton of a home.

We had been in this house for six months before I hung up any art because I didn’t know how long we’d be here and I still felt guilty for claiming the space as my own, when so many people have so much less. But I did use my dishes, the good ones. Even though a dinner is more fleeting than time in our home.

We know the idea of death and decay, not living forever, but rarely understand it. We know a lot of things we don’t understand. Like the concept of having a house, but not a home. Eventually, I came to hang the art and wash the dishes - reuse, rinse, repeat - because I couldn’t ignore the empty wall above my couch that I resisted being so excited about. Another thing I knew of, but didn’t understand. Reserving my joy for stolen moments.

Maybe understanding isn’t the point, but being here to enjoy it while it lasts.

To be here as fully as we can, while we can.

In our skeleton, and in our home.

I want to take pictures of ugly things.

Things we mistake for ugly that are actually worn, broken, discarded, or unfinished. Works in progress, life as a creative act. The obstacles & discomforts we hide because we’re taught that messy is ugly.

We’re taught to color inside the lines. Stand in line. Stand up straight. Straighten out. Don’t stand out. Don’t blurt out. In fact, don’t ask any questions. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable. Be quiet. Be quaint, but not too quirky. Be tasteful, be nice.

Just shallow enough, never too deep.

I want to take pictures of ugly things because I think ugly things are profoundly beautiful. Leagues above that with which we decorate our homes. More valuable than the things we pedestalized for presentation.

I want to take pictures of ugly things because of how visceral the response is. Because it reminds us we’re alive. Because when we can feel deeply in our bones a connection to the obscure, when we have an intimate relationship with things we dare not share, let alone show off, it changes everything.

It changes who we are as people. Reminding us of the ugly lumps of clay and rock so many masterpieces are born from.

It reminds us that ugly is a made up word. That language and perception are absorbed from the culture, superficially. Unconsciously. That ugly things are actually beauty in its rawest form.

Unfiltered, unprocessed, unpolished and unprepared for the display. The performance.

I want to take pictures of what we don’t tend to see, but is always there, begging, beginning to end, to be witnessed in its entirety, to be accepted and celebrated, rather than overcome.

Perhaps your pretty ribbons present your struggle, but it’s the ugliness of the struggle that bears true beauty, and that is what I want to photograph.

What is raw and what is real. The ugly, the unafraid, and the unlimited.

It’s so interesting to think about the different people who might find this, and what brings any of us to this platform. Personally, I’ve subscribed to several people‘s Substacks, but have never committed to utilizing the platform myself. I write a lot, have a writing coach and participate in regular co-writing sessions with an online community that I pay for. I journal, I think a lot (out loud to my partner’s detriment), have been organizing a collection of poems to publish, and am working on my first novella. I’ve gone back-and-forth between just utilizing the blog feature of my website, or diving in here. Maintaining volume isn’t what I was worried about, it’s having another fucking thing to do. Another platform. Another thing added onto my plate, when I’ve been avidly culling, purging, and re-prioritize where my attention goes.

But I’ve had a cosmic itch for years now, to put my writing into the world. And not just in email format or Instagram captions, but in a way that holds my heart. The same way my house stands firm in the shaking wind. The same wind that uproots massive trees, and kills an entire town’s electricity. I’ve been wanting a space that holds firm the truth that blows me away. Not a breeze, but a storm. The kind of storm that keeps you up at night in anticipation that something will come crashing down through your roof. You can’t see this wind, but you sure as hell can hear it and feel it. It’s this invisible force that intensifies every storm. Pouring rain, detrimental floods, wildfires that consume mountain ranges. All of them stand alone in their chaos and gravity, but wind is the drastic amplifier that often dictates the aftermath.

The book I’m writing, snippets of which I’m ecstatic to share, is about the pursuit of a meaningful life. Inevitably my pursuit. It’s about life as a creative act, using art theory to help people live more intentionally. Not to claim their role as an artist, but to claim accountability for their choices, for their guilt and shame. The good, the bad and the ugly, with the unconditional positive regard and neutral acceptance that is required for genuine curiosity and creative play. The collection of poems and field notes I’ve written since ~2014 are about the human experience, all of which serve as firsthand empirical research contributing to the larger body of work. One that has inevitably grown into a self portrait, as all of our creative life’s work tends to be.

While I would love for this body of work to feel more concise and eloquent, it would be a missed opportunity if it were not also chaotic and uncomfortable. My work as a writer, artist, and professional photographer is rooted in highlighting the messy details of our relationship to the material world. Much of which is not necessarily what people want to promote, and has therefore shifted my photography career from traditional brand photography back to what sparked my interest as a child - documentary journalism and street photography. As this work progresses I’m noticing a deep seated desire to reveal and reflect to people things they don’t want to see. I want my work to highlight this in a way that conveys profound beauty in the mundane, the ugliness, and the overlooked.

These are the places from which humans derive true meaning.

As per the prompts Substack provides, I’m not sure what kind of community I want to build, or the specificity of my “newsletter” boundaries, but I know I’d like to show up and share with brutal honesty and curiosity. I photograph artisans and creatives all over the world, people who strive to be living embodiments of their work. It never ceases to amaze me that regardless of what we do, we have so much more in common than we don’t. All of my work is rooted in translating the liminal space of the human experience into tangible creative work that transcends barriers.

The space will certainly evolve, as I’m just the messenger.

Thanks for being here. 💛

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