For an Impressionist to paint from nature is not to paint the subject, but to realize sensations.

Photography and writing are basically a hobby for me. Although I attempt to grow at it, I’m not sure I consider myself any good. I’m so insecure about my practice that I write to enhance the images, but it isn’t clear to me whether that bit is effective, either; despite never having written a word with which I don’t agree, I find my style over-complicated. And I don’t seek much feedback, so who knows if the combination works.

Talking about this practice can be just as uncomfortable as its examination. For instance, writing this entry took me three weeks because every time I endeavored to edit it, I was more embarrassed by the disclosure — I mean, these are all thoughts in my head, but when written, they take on a tangible mass: often I don’t know if my time is worth their expression. And the only resolution is to hear her say, “das nice,” which, to my fault, is a validation she probably doesn’t quite understand.

Sometimes I feel like a fraud to consider myself an artist — especially when people ask me what I do. It is a frequent and heart-rending question when it arrives. The first fifteen seconds of my response is usually a sigh and dead silence as I consider how best to describe it, and I’m still unsure what to say. How do I explain an intrigue with imagery that goes beyond photography, and interests in literary expression including philosophy, spirituality, stoicism, Buddhism, Shintoism, realism, minimalism?

So what do I do? I think, yet I don’t claim to think deeply enough to be considered a philosopher; I make images, but clearly I’m no photographer (even though I think the definition is too narrow); and, that I cannot verbalize all this negates any possible claim to the term of author. Maybe later I’ll write more about this riddle (he says coyly), but for now, the meaning is in here somewhere — if you can make more sense of it than me, congratulations.