***This place holds some of my earliest memories***.

I remember tear-soaked frustration over tangled fishing line, toes pinched by crawdads in the watering hole, and drinking soda on my great-grandmother's quilt as we picnicked in the shade of the oak and pine and sycamore trees.
Each year after losing patience with our fishing rods, my brother and I would sit by the river and watch the rainbow trout swim past us while my dad and gramps fished. We’d hike around the wooded valley, and later, feast on fried-fish dinners back at the cabin.

These photos from Roaring River State Park in the Ozarks of southern Missouri were taken long after those early years, but every time I visit I’m struck by how much it stays the same while I change. When I first took them in 2015, I didn’t think much of the photos. They felt unremarkable and familiar—like the trees I passed every day. They were just another batch of nature shots. But sometimes, like memories, images need time to mature.

Maybe it’s the distance, or maybe it’s nostalgia tinting them with that warm glow. I find myself looking back at many of my old photos this way, realizing that some are ready to be shared now in a way they weren’t when I first made them.

As I revisit these photos and others, I realize that most of my work is more instinctual than thoughtful—there’s usually no grand idea or meaning behind it. At most, I have a broad concept to work from, and usually no more than a feeling or a reaction to something that catches my eye. Often I only realize its meaning or impact much later, when I’ve had time to reflect, or when the world around me changes and gives that image new context.

Photography, for me, is often a way to capture those fleeting moments of connection with my surroundings without overthinking it. Roaring River isn’t just a scenic spot in Missouri—it’s the backdrop to years of family traditions, memories, and quiet moments by the water.

*Camping Grounds--Terribly Underexposed*, 2015

Photos, I’ve come to realize, are like journal entries. Not just because they record a moment in time, but because they hold the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of the photographer. I can recall the moment of taking a lot of the photos I’ve made—where I was, what I was thinking, and how I felt. It’s not unlike writing something down to cement it in memory; coordinating eyes, hands and thought at once to tell yourself, “hey, don’t forget this.”

Interestingly, while the photo preserves the visual detail, my memory holds onto the inner landscape—what was going on in my mind and heart at that time.

I remember taking these over the spring break of 2015, a particularly cold and rainy week. Along with my then-girlfriend-now-wife Lorie and my roommate & close friend Isaac, we camped by the river—fishing, hiking, playing board games, and cooking meals over the campfire. The storms got so big that there was a flash flood warning and we had to sleep in my old Jeep.

When I look at the images, I’m transported back to that week and reminisce on the fun memories of daring each other to jump into the ice-cold river and hiking at night, scaring each other in the dark. I think, although few share those exact memories with me, many can connect with the feeling of being young and innocent and free.

This is why, I think, an artist’s work is never more important to anyone than to the artist themselves. We pour something of ourselves into our work, and in doing so, become deeply attached to it. Every work of art is an extension of the artist—a journal entry revealing something about their personal experience.

When we look at art, we’re not just seeing a reflection of someone’s hard work and talent; we’re seeing a glimpse into their life, perspective, and soul. That’s what gives art its power. It connects us, revealing the ways in which we are similar and different from each other.

But on social media, this dynamic gets warped. Social platforms blur the lines between fact and fiction, human and AI, art and brainrot. And they certainly don’t encourage deep contemplation.

I recently read a study that showed attention spans have decreased by about 70% since 2004. When the study began, people would spend an average of 2.5 minutes on a digital window—like a word document, web page, or email—before switching to something else. Today, that number has dropped to just 40 seconds.

I imagine part of that is because there is more content to see, more apps to use, and more digital work to be done. But social media undoubtedly plays a role too—rewarding us for quick scrolling and endless consumption. It’s too easy to get stuck in a doomscroll, losing time without even realizing it. It happens to me almost daily.

So how do we engage with art in this environment? How do we connect with a photograph, a painting, a sculpture in just 40 seconds? Is that enough time to grasp the human experience behind the art? Can we even distinguish between meaningful art and empty content in that brief span? I have my doubts.

And yet, in a world where billions of people are fighting for your attention, even 40 seconds seems generous. Most of us don’t spend much time looking at a single post—we’re busy, our feeds are endless, and art competes with everything from memes to advertisements. I don’t expect people to spend more than a moment with my own work, either.

And even when we do slow down, brands and content creators and artists are all on a constant hunt for whatever scrap of time and attention they can get from you. If they can’t get your money, they want your time. It’s even better if they can get both.

People are so inundated with the constant spam emails, texts, and phone calls; the targeted ad every 4th post on Instagram or Tiktok; Netflix and Youtube and Hulu ads. The real estate of time and attention is growing more and more populated, and small creators and artmakers find themselves lost in a crowd trying to shout over the noise.

It’s no surprise that galleries and photobooks still exist—they create an environment in which you spend time with the art. There’s nothing else to compete with your attention in that environment. But part of me wishes that social media could be that way too, that it could somehow reward slowness, encouraging us to spend more time with each piece. I think it could be. And for those that want it that way, maybe we just need to start pretending it is.

There’s no doubt that social media is a powerful tool for connection—and it’s far more democratic than galleries or books, where gatekeepers dictate access. But it’s also a shallow experience more often than not, and that bothers me.

I want to use my time online more intentionally, to spend longer with each image or post, especially those from people I care about. So when they share a memory or artwork that is close to them, I can connect with them on a deeper level. I think that as viewers, we’d find the experience more meaningful if we could slow down and really absorb what’s in front of us. Maybe then, art wouldn’t feel like just another thing to scroll past.

If you read all of that, I sincerely thank you for spending scarce and valuable time with me.

Please consider leaving a comment below to share your thoughts. I would love to hear if you feel the same way or not!