Inside The Studio
The studio is where I spend time paying attention.
While the finished paintings are what ultimately leave the studio, much of the work happens long before a piece feels resolved. It is a place for observation, experimentation, questioning, and reflection. Some days lead to significant changes on a canvas. Other days are spent looking, reconsidering, and waiting for the next step to become clear.
I am interested in the small moments that influence the direction of a painting: an unexpected color relationship, a surface that begins to reveal new possibilities, a mark that changes the balance of an entire composition. Those moments are often subtle, but they can shape the course of the work in meaningful ways.
This section of the journal offers a glimpse into that ongoing process. It is a place to share thoughts, observations, works in progress, and reflections from the studio as the paintings continue to evolve.
Music, Movement & Culture
For many years, my life revolved around music, travel, and the people who create culture. As a photographer, I spent countless hours in venues, festivals, recording studios, backstage corridors, airports, hotel rooms, and on long stretches of highway between cities. The camera gave me access to places and experiences I never could have anticipated, introducing me to musicians, artists, audiences, and communities throughout the United States and Europe.
What interested me most was often what happened around the main event. The conversations before a performance, the atmosphere inside a room, the character of a place, and the small moments that revealed something genuine about the people involved. Over time, those experiences became less about documenting music and more about paying attention to the world around me.
This section of the journal is a place to share stories, observations, photographs, and reflections drawn from those years. Some posts may focus on artists, performances, or places. Others may explore the experiences, relationships, and moments that continue to influence the way I see and engage with the world.
Archive
Not everything that shapes us becomes a painting.
Throughout my career, I have collected photographs, notebooks, ticket stubs, backstage passes, conversations, and countless reminders of places I've been and people I've met along the way. Individually, they capture specific moments. Together, they tell a much larger story about a life spent moving through music, culture, travel, and creative communities.
This archive is a place to preserve and revisit those experiences. Some entries focus on photographs and assignments from my years as a photographer. Others highlight stories, artifacts, and moments that remain meaningful long after the event itself. Together, they form a record of the journey that eventually led me to painting.
Conversations Along the Way
One of the greatest gifts the road gave me was the chance to spend time with people whose stories had already become part of cultural history. Not through interviews or press photos, but through real conversations. Backstage, after shows, and in the quiet moments between.
This photograph was taken with BP Fallon, a writer, musician, and creative force whose path crossed with The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, T. Rex, U2, and countless others. What stayed with me wasn't the resume. It was the reminder that behind every body of work is a person driven by curiosity, persistence, and a lifelong commitment to creating.
I've come to believe that art is shaped as much by relationships as it is by individual practice. The people we meet and the stories we share have a way of finding their place in the work long after the moment has passed.
What Matters Most
For all the miles traveled, late nights, and time spent away from home, these two were always the reason.
When you're on the road, there are moments when you're exhausted, questioning the sacrifices, and wondering if the struggle is worth it. In those moments, I thought about my daughters. They gave purpose to the long days and strength to keep moving forward when it would have been easier to stop.
Family and art have always been connected for me. Both require commitment, patience, sacrifice, and faith in something you can't always see yet. Everything I've built, every risk I've taken, and every creative path I've followed has been rooted in the same belief: fight for what you love.
At the end of the day, no achievement means more to me than being their dad.
Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Few experiences have shaped my creative perspective more than the opportunity to work alongside artists whose influence extended far beyond the stage. Beyond the performances were the crews, families, traditions, and relationships that made the work possible. I became fascinated not only by the artists themselves, but by the worlds surrounding them.
Those experiences revealed that meaningful creative work is rarely the result of a single individual. It is built through mentorship, collaboration, sacrifice, and generations of shared knowledge. To witness those environments firsthand was both an education and a privilege.
The lessons learned backstage, on tour buses, in dressing rooms, and along endless miles of highway continue to influence the way I think about art, culture, and creative practice today. They remain a reminder that every artist stands on foundations built by those who came before them, carrying forward a legacy while contributing their own voice to the story.
The Distance Between
Some photographs happen because you're paying attention. Others happen because you recognize a moment when it appears.
I took this photograph of Seasick Steve standing beside a passing train, lost in thought. To most people, it might look like a man watching rail cars roll by. But knowing his story, I saw something else. Before the stages, the crowds, and the recognition, he spent years riding freight trains, drifting from town to town, living a life most people only hear about.
As the train passed, it felt like he was watching more than steel and motion. It felt like he was watching pieces of his own history move by.
I've always been drawn to moments like this. Not the performance, but the reflection. The quiet space where a person briefly reconnects with where they've been, and the long road it took to get where they are.
Have I Told You Today How Much I Love You?
I met Shilah Morrow years ago when we both lived in Austin. Most people know her as Mama Shi, and if you've ever met her, you probably understand why. She's the kind of person who makes everyone around her feel like family.
Life eventually took her to Nashville, but some friendships aren't measured in miles. No matter how much time passes between conversations, whenever we're together it's like we never skipped a beat.
For years, I've greeted her the same way: "Have I told you today how much I love you?" I still do.
The older I get, the more I realize how rare friendships like this are. People drift in and out of our lives, but every now and then, someone becomes part of your story for good.
Mama Shi is one of those people.
The Things We Carry
Long before I picked up a paintbrush, I was surrounded by road cases like this. They were stacked in loading docks, rolled through arenas, pushed across parking lots, and packed into trailers headed for the next city. To most people, they were just equipment. To the crews moving them every day, they were part of the machinery that made the entire show possible.
Touring taught me that there's a certain beauty in things built for use. The scratches, labels, dents, tape marks, and layers of history tell their own story. Every surface becomes a record of movement, miles traveled, and work done.
Looking at this Jane's Addiction road case, I don't just see gear. I see texture, typography, contrast, and the accumulation of time. Those details continue to influence the way I paint. What was once a piece of touring infrastructure becomes something abstract, transformed through memory, observation, and a different way of seeing.
Behind Closed Doors
Some of the most meaningful photographs I've made were never taken from the front row. They happened in the quiet moments, behind closed doors, when the performance was over and the public version of the story disappeared.
This photograph of Lucinda Williams exists because of trust. Over the years, I learned that access isn't something you're given because of a camera. It's earned through consistency, discretion, and respect. Artists knew I wasn't there to exploit a moment or turn vulnerability into a headline. That trust opened doors and allowed me to witness people as they truly were.
Those experiences changed the way I think about both relationships and art. The strongest connections are built slowly, through integrity and mutual respect. I approach painting much the same way. Rather than forcing an outcome, I allow a relationship to develop with the work over time. The painting reveals itself gradually, just as trust does, layer by layer.
The Road to Nowhere
For a long time, life was measured in miles. New cities every day, different venues each night, and countless hours spent watching the world pass by through a bus window.
Looking back, I sometimes think, I've been everywhere and seen nothing.
Not because I wasn't there, but because constant movement has a way of blurring the details. The destinations fade together, while the feeling of being in motion remains.
What stayed with me were the moments in between. The quiet hours before a show, conversations that stretched late into the night, the anticipation of what was ahead, and the endless road leading there.
Those experiences taught me to pay attention to atmosphere as much as place. While many of the destinations have faded from memory, the feeling of movement, possibility, and human connection remains. It continues to shape the way I see the world and the work I create today.
After Midnight
For years, my life existed between load-ins and load-outs, between the lights going down and the sun coming up. Every night was a different venue, a different city, a different room filled with unfamiliar faces. By morning, it was all gone, packed into cases and headed somewhere new.
Backstage culture has a rhythm of its own. It's a world built on contrast. Large crowds and quiet hallways. Bright stages and dark parking lots. Moments that feel larger than life followed by long stretches of solitude. You learn to exist between extremes.
Looking back, I can see how much that experience shaped the way I paint. I'm drawn to tension, scale, atmosphere, and the space where opposites meet. Every painting feels a little like those years on the road. Layers of movement, traces of presence, and evidence that someone was there before the moment disappeared into the night.
Through the Blur
Life in music often feels like a continuous blur. Long nights, early mornings, endless miles, and a constant stream of new faces, places, and experiences. Over time, the details begin to soften around the edges, blending together into a single memory of movement and noise.
Yet some people remain clear.
Along the way, I was fortunate to form friendships that endured beyond the venues, tours, and late-night adventures. The music brought us together, but it was trust, loyalty, and shared experience that kept those connections alive long after the lights went out.
The road has a way of revealing character. When the crowd disappears and the stage is empty, you learn who is truly in your corner. Looking back, some of the most valuable things I carried home were not photographs or stories, but the friendships that survived the blur.
All Access
I've never been very good at throwing things away. Over the years, I collected backstage passes, laminates, ticket stubs, hotel keys, set lists, and all the small artifacts that accumulate when your life is measured in miles and moments.
To most people, they're just pieces of paper and plastic. To me, they're reminders of places I've been, people I've met, and experiences I never could have planned for. Each one marks a chapter, a city, a late night, or a fleeting moment that somehow became part of a much larger story.
Looking through them now, I'm reminded less of the events themselves and more of the life that surrounded them. The airports, loading docks, backstage hallways, friendships, long drives, and unexpected adventures.
What a life lived. These small objects may not seem like much, but together they form a personal archive of experiences that continue to influence the way I see the world and the work I create today.
Losing My Mind
Life on the road isn't always packed arenas, late nights, and unforgettable stories. Sometimes it's long hours with nowhere to be, waiting for a load-in, a soundcheck, or a bus call that feels days away. When you spend enough time living out of a suitcase, boredom becomes its own form of creativity.
This was one of those moments.
Somewhere between exhaustion and entertainment, I started making ridiculous self portraits with my phone just to pass the time. Looking back, they're completely absurd, which is exactly why I love them. The road has a way of stripping away routine and replacing it with chaos, and eventually you learn to embrace it.
Those years taught me not to take everything so seriously. Some of the best memories came from the moments that served no purpose at all. Just a group of people trying to stay entertained, stay sane, and make each other laugh until the next adventure began.
Surviving the Dream
For years, I had the privilege of documenting artists whose lives revolved around creating something meaningful night after night. Long after the lights went down and the crowds went home, they would wake up and do it all over again in the next city.
What always interested me wasn't just the performance. It was the dedication behind it. The endless miles, the sacrifices, the uncertainty, and the commitment required to keep creating regardless of the circumstances.
Photographing musicians gave me a front row seat to that pursuit. I witnessed artists pouring everything they had into their work, often with no guarantee beyond the opportunity to do it again tomorrow.
Those experiences continue to influence me as a painter. Creativity isn't a single moment of inspiration. It's showing up, trusting the process, and giving a piece of yourself to the work every day. That's the culture I was documenting, and it's the same spirit I carry into the studio today.
From Within
The most meaningful perspective rarely comes from the outside looking in. It comes from being present, immersed in the experience, and sharing space with the people creating it.
For years, I found myself surrounded by artists, audiences, crews, and communities connected by a common energy. Night after night, I witnessed the exchange that happened between stage and crowd, performer and listener, individual and collective. Every room carried its own atmosphere, shaped by the people inside it.
Along the way, I met thousands of faces, heard countless stories, and experienced cultures through the people who lived them. Those encounters became a source of inspiration, revealing the ways music, art, and shared experience connect us across backgrounds and geography.
The details may fade over time, but the energy remains. It continues to influence how I see the world and the work I create today.
The Cost of the Road
Life on the road taught me a lot, but it also asked for a lot in return. Long stretches away from home, missed birthdays, missed holidays, and countless moments with family that you never get back. There are days when the excitement of the next city is overshadowed by the people waiting for you at home.
This photograph reminds me of those quieter moments. The hours before a show when the energy settles and reality catches up. The road can be exhausting, isolating, and unforgiving.
But for those who choose it, there's usually a reason. A belief in what you're building. A willingness to sacrifice comfort for experience. Looking back, I wouldn't trade those years for anything. They shaped who I am, taught me resilience, and gave me a lifetime of stories that continue to find their way into my work.
Keeping the Culture Alive
Some of my favorite moments have happened far from a stage or gallery. They happened on street corners, in alleyways, public squares, and places where culture exists without permission. Musicians playing for whoever stops to listen, artists creating simply because they feel compelled to create.
I've always been drawn to that energy. Street culture is raw, immediate, and deeply human. It reflects the character of a place and the people who call it home. No two cities sound the same, move the same, or tell their stories the same way.
Experiencing these moments around the world changed the way I see creativity. They reminded me that culture isn't something preserved behind glass. It's alive. It evolves through participation, expression, and shared experience.
That belief continues to influence my work. I'm interested in the traces people leave behind, the rhythms of everyday life, and the creative spirit that emerges when individuals contribute something of themselves to the world around them. Preserving culture begins by paying attention to it.
Before the Applause
Most people experience music after it's finished.
They hear the final recording, attend the concert, or stream the song years later. What they rarely see is the quiet work that happens beforehand.
I've always been drawn to those moments. The hours spent refining an idea, chasing a feeling, or searching for the right note. No audience. No spotlight. Just the process.
This photograph was made while Willie Nelson was recording in Nashville. Sitting quietly behind the camera, I was reminded that every finished work begins the same way. One decision at a time. One note at a time. One small step toward something that doesn't exist yet.
The older I get, the more I appreciate those unseen moments. That's where the work becomes real.
In Front of 100,00 People
There is nothing quite like standing on a stage in front of more than 100,000 people. No photograph can fully capture it. The scale is almost impossible to comprehend. Faces stretch to the horizon, the energy becomes its own atmosphere, and for a brief moment, thousands of strangers become connected by the same experience.
Some of my favorite memories from the road happened on the international festival circuit. Every weekend brought a new city, a new country, and a new crowd. The travel could be exhausting, but the moment the music started, none of that mattered. From the stage, the world felt both enormous and surprisingly small. Different languages, different cultures, and different backgrounds, all gathered in one place for the same reason.
Those moments never got old. This photograph reminds me how fortunate I was to witness them from the inside.
Just for the Fun of It
Not every photograph needs a purpose. Not every creative project needs a strategy. Sometimes it's enough to get together with friends, try something different, and see what happens.
This image was made during a shoot with Kathy Valentine of the Go-Go's. There was no grand concept behind it. We found a location, brought a guitar and an amplifier, and spent the afternoon making photographs simply because it sounded like fun.
The creative industries can be incredibly rewarding, but they can also become serious very quickly. Deadlines, expectations, and constant pressure have a way of making people forget why they started creating in the first place. Experiences like this were a reminder that sometimes the best work happens when you stop overthinking and allow yourself to enjoy the process.
A little chaos, a lot of laughter, and no agenda beyond having a good time. Sometimes that's exactly what's needed.
Crossing Paths
One of the things I loved most about working in music was watching artists grow. You never really knew where a particular path might lead or whose career you were witnessing in its earliest stages.
This photograph was made when Parker McCollum was still an emerging Texas artist building his audience one show at a time. The image would later become the cover of his debut album, The Limestone Kid, though at the time it simply felt like another moment spent documenting the culture and people around the music.
Looking back, that's what made the experience so rewarding. Beyond the shows and the photographs, there was the opportunity to work alongside developing artists and watch their careers unfold over time. You got a front-row seat to the hard work, persistence, and belief required to build something meaningful. Sometimes years later, you realize a photograph captured more than a moment. It captured the beginning of a much larger story.
Between Worlds
One of the things I loved most about photography was the opportunity to move between worlds.
Over the years, I worked with artists from nearly every genre imaginable. Different audiences, traditions, and communities. The music was often the entry point, but what interested me most was the culture surrounding it.
This photograph was made while documenting Los Tigres del Norte. Their influence extends far beyond music, becoming part of the cultural fabric of communities across Latin America and beyond.
Experiences like this reminded me that culture takes many forms. The more I traveled, the more I realized that every community has its own stories, traditions, and voices worth preserving.
My job was simply to pay attention and document a small piece of the story.
In the Presence of Giants
Over the years, photography placed me in rooms I never could have imagined and introduced me to artists whose work helped shape entire genres. Many of them had already become legends long before I ever picked up a camera, yet there they were, sitting across from me as people rather than icons.
This photograph was made while photographing James Cotton for an album cover. Moments like this always felt bigger than the photograph itself. I wasn't just documenting a person. I was documenting a lifetime of stories, experiences, and contributions to culture. Every line, expression, and gesture carried decades of history.
The older I get, the more I appreciate the responsibility that comes with preserving those moments. Long after we're gone, photographs often remain. They become part of the historical record, helping future generations connect with the artists and cultural figures who came before them.
I'm grateful I had the opportunity to spend time with a few of these giants and help tell a small part of their story.
The Abstract
I find inspiration in places most people pass without a second thought. This installation caught my attention because it transformed something familiar into something unexpected. Hundreds of shoes, each with its own history, arranged to form a skull that only reveals itself when viewed as a whole.
What fascinates me is how perspective changes everything. Up close, it's a collection of individual objects. Step back, and a completely different image emerges.
That idea continues to influence the way I paint. Marks, textures, symbols, and fragments may seem unrelated on their own, but over time they begin to form relationships and meaning. What first appears chaotic slowly reveals a sense of order.
Moments like this are why I pay attention. Inspiration often hides in plain sight. The abstract is everywhere if you're willing to look for it.