Glass Bones Going to Print

“The photograph preserves presence by recording its disappearance.” — Quinn Jacobson, Glass Bones (influenced by John Berger and Roland Barthes)

I’ll be doing the final edits on the manuscript this week. I’ve now gone through the book several times, including all 26 chapters, the introductions, conclusions, notes, and preface. Honestly, it’s hard to describe the amount of work this has been. Some days I wonder what exactly I committed myself to, and then something clicks into place, a paragraph opens up, an image suddenly belongs where it should, and I feel inspired all over again.

I want to thank the people who have acted as readers throughout this process and worked through the chapters with me each week. Your feedback, criticism, encouragement, and patience have mattered more than I can say. This book is better because of you.

I don’t know the exact date the manuscript will go to the printer yet, but my goal is to have a proof copy in my hands by the end of the month, possibly sooner. I’ll make signed hardcover copies available to anyone interested for the cost of printing and shipping, and there will also be a paperback version on Amazon at cost.

I’ve decided to hold off on the ebook version for now. I may eventually release one, but at this point I feel like this book is meant to exist as a physical object. With the amount of artwork, texture, and visual material woven through it, it simply feels better in your hands than on a screen.

“The photograph preserves presence by recording its disappearance.”

— Quinn Jacobson, Glass Bones (influenced by John Berger and Roland Barthes)

I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating: this project has never been about commerce or making money. It’s about sharing ideas, artwork, and questions that I think matter. It’s about trying to better understand what drives us as human beings, especially in the shadow of mortality.

I’ll begin work on RUPTURE next week and officially start building that book in June. It will be a completely unique kind of project. Glass Bones is heavily theoretical and philosophical. RUPTURE will foreground the artwork itself: the images, the darkroom, the studio, the materials, the failures, the residue, and the physical process of making. The theory will still be there, but mostly in the background.

What I’m increasingly interested in is whether the work itself can function as epistemological evidence. Not illustration of an idea after the fact, but evidence generated through creative practice itself (arts-based research methodology). The photographs, paintings, plates, chemicals, traces, and repetitions are becoming central to what I’m calling Rupture Field Theory (RFT).

Dr. Dan Liechty will be serving as faculty for this next stage of the journey, which feels both exciting and somewhat surreal to me given how foundational Becker’s work has been to my thinking for so many years.

My Book: The Final Stages of Glass Bones

I wanted to share a few pages from Glass Bones—a glimpse into how the book is beginning to take shape as a physical object.

I’m still working. Still in the darkroom, still at the canvas, still refining the manuscript. Every day. But it’s close now. Close enough that I can begin to think less about what it is becoming and more about where it might live once it leaves my hands.

Right now, I’m planning a small hardback run (5.5” x 8.5”)—somewhere in the range of 250 to 300 copies. Not because I expect a large audience, but because I’m more interested in placement than scale. This isn’t a commercial project. It moves in the opposite direction.

What I keep returning to is the idea of libraries, especially at art schools. It’s a niche path, but that’s always been where this work lives.

There’s something compelling about the possibility that this book could sit quietly on a shelf, embedded within a larger system of knowledge, waiting for the right kind of encounter. Not driven by visibility or promotion, but by proximity. Someone searches for a keyword—mortality, art, psychology, violence, or meaning—and this object appears. They take it down. Spend time with it. Or don’t. But the encounter remains possible.

In that sense, distribution becomes part of the work.

If Becker is even partially right that culture functions as a buffer against the anxiety of death, then placing a book like this into public collections may operate as a small countercurrent. Not as a corrective, exactly, but as an opening. A space where the usual defenses are not reinforced but perhaps loosened.

Because this project doesn’t offer resolution.

Much of the work moves through sites of rupture—historical, psychological, and cultural. The violence enacted against the Tabeguache Ute, for example, is not framed as an aberration of cruelty but as something emerging from a deeper structure. A culture unable to face its own mortality displaces that terror outward, producing an “other” to carry what it cannot hold itself.

The images that follow don’t attempt to resolve that. They witness it.

They sit in the places where meaning breaks down and remain there long enough for something else to surface—something less stable, but perhaps more honest.

There will be a digital version. An audiobook as well. Both extend access, which matters. But they inevitably flatten part of the experience. The scale of the images, the pacing, the way text and image occupy the same field—those things don’t translate cleanly.

This has always been a hybrid project. Part book, part object. Something meant to be read but also handled. Something that lives not just in circulation but in place.

More soon.

Table of contents.

How each chapter begins: a quote and an image somewhere within the chapter or at the end.

At the end of the book, I cover my work over the past 30+ years.

Glass and Gold - Glass Prints

This piece grew out of a technical curiosity, but it didn’t stay there for long.

I’ve been experimenting with collodio-chloride on glass, using a wet collodion half-plate negative as the source image. What interested me initially was the reversal: taking a process already defined by fragility and asking it to exist as an object rather than an image alone. Printing onto glass changes the relationship immediately. The photograph no longer sits on a surface; it hovers within one. It becomes something you look into rather than at. I’ve printed on glass before—carbon, oil, and collodio-chloride. This gold addition was new.

That shift matters to me. My work is often in the unstable space between presence and absence, between what can be held and what can't. Collodio-chloride amplifies that tension. The image is there, but it never fully settles. It feels provisional, as if it could just as easily slip away.

Exposed, pre-fix.

After the print was finished, I backed the glass with gold. That decision wasn’t decorative. Gold carries a long cultural history of sanctification, permanence, value, and transcendence. Gold is what we use to signify that something matters and endures. In this context, it felt closer to a defense mechanism. A thin layer of assurance applied to something fundamentally unstable. The gold doesn’t resolve the fragility of the glass or the image; it frames it and maybe even tries to protect it. That tension is the point.

I’m aware that backing photographic images with gold carries the history of the orotone, a process designed to heighten luminosity and permanence. I’m interested in that lineage, but not in reviving it. Here, the gold isn’t about brilliance or finish. It functions more like a psychological gesture, an attempt to stabilize what can’t be stabilized, to sanctify something that is already slipping.

The skull forms in the background weren’t meant to announce themselves. They emerge slowly, almost reluctantly. That’s how mortality functions most of the time. It isn’t usually dramatic or explicit. It sits behind us, watching, shaping our behavior without demanding our attention. I wanted that presence to feel ambient rather than symbolic, something you notice only after spending time with the image.

The central figure feels assembled rather than organic. Stacked. Held together. I think of it less as a subject and more as a structure, a self-constructed one under pressure. The translucence of the collodio-chloride allows it to exist somewhere between solidity and dissolution, which mirrors the psychological space I’m often working in. Identity here isn’t fixed. It’s maintained.

From an arts-based research perspective, this piece feels important because the process itself is doing the thinking. I’m not illustrating theory after the fact. The materials are pushing back. Glass breaks. Chemistry misbehaves. The image resists control. Those risks aren’t incidental; they’re where the knowledge lives. The work knows something because it could fail.

What consistently resonates with me is the delicate boundary between reverence and denial. The gold can read as a halo or a shield. I’m interested in that ambiguity. It reflects the way we often try to stabilize what we know is unstable—through meaning, through ritual, through objects that promise endurance.

This piece doesn’t try to solve anything. It holds a condition. It sits with fragility rather than sealing it over. That feels honest to me.

Much more exploring ahead! I might break these and see what that produces. And I’m in the process of getting some front-surface mirror material to experiment with; I mention the technique in my book to make “faux” daguerreotypes. I’m going to use collodio-chloride to see what happens.

My New Books for 2026

Have you ever had an epiphany? An epiphany is a sudden, profound realization or insightful moment where the true meaning or essence of something becomes clear, often from a simple occurrence, stemming from the Greek word for "manifestation" or "appearance.”

I’ve had several over the past few weeks.

I wanted to share how I’m going to unfold these publications this year. I will use some of the 800-900 pages of text in these books for my 2028 thesis/dissertation—these writings will drive my dissertation.

“I’m building a psychology of artistic practice that takes mortality seriously as a formative force. And my three books, Glass Bones, Rupture, and In the Shadow of Sun Mountain, act as a trilogy: Theory → Practice → Witness regarding the theories and creativity.”

— Quinn Jacobson

This is how I see it transpiring:

June 2026: Glass Bones is published.

September 2026: Rupture is published.

November 2026: In the Shadow of Sun Mountain is published.

Allow me to explicate: I'm building a psychology of artistic practice that takes mortality seriously as a formative force—not as metaphor, but as the pressure that shapes how artists see, make, and live. My trilogy examines this from three angles: Glass Bones provides the theoretical framework, drawing on Becker, Rank, and Terror Management Theory to understand death anxiety and cultural defense. Rupture translates theory into practice, exploring the disciplines and orientations that allow artists to transform existential pressure into creative form. In the Shadow of Sun Mountain offers lived witness—thirty years of working with nineteenth-century processes, paint, clay, broken materials, plants, people, and the mountain landscapes as sites where mortality and imagination meet. Together, they map the terrain where awareness becomes art: Theory → Practice → Witness.

This research is situated within liminal space: psychological, material, and cultural thresholds produced by mortality awareness. Rather than resolving death anxiety through symbolic closure, the work asks what becomes possible when creative practice holds the threshold open long enough for transformation to occur.

Mortality awareness places me in a permanently liminal condition. I am alive, but never free of the knowledge that I will not remain so. From a Beckerian perspective, this is not incidental; it is the core destabilizing fact of consciousness. I am an animal capable of symbol-making who cannot fully believe in my own symbols, a being suspended between embodiment and abstraction, presence and disappearance.

I do not experience this condition as episodic or developmental, something to be outgrown or resolved. It is structural. Consciousness itself unfolds at the threshold. What culture often treats as pathology or anxiety to be managed, I understand as the ground from which meaning-making arises. Creative practice, in this sense, is not an escape from liminality but a way of inhabiting it with attention and responsibility, giving form to what cannot be stabilized without distortion.

I will be making new work—photographs, paintings, and mixed media for Glass Bones and Rupture. My work from the mountain will be featured in Sun Mountain.

I think you can wrap your head around that one, right? Just writing this out alleviates some of the “it’s in me, and it has to come out” stuff. To quote John Lee Hooker from Boogie Chillin’ (1948), a natural, internal force that must be expressed. 

Notes From the Studio: Staring at the Sun

I made a new tintype today (I made several, actually)—something small, simple, and unexpectedly revealing. It began as a response to reading Yalom’s Staring at the Sun. I sculpted a tiny figure and a rough, spiked “sun” and set them up in the studio to explore that familiar tension between awe, fear, and the search for meaning.

But once the plate dried, the image took on a different life. The “sun” started to resemble a virus, and the little figure looked like he was trying to negotiate with a force he couldn’t quite name. It shifted the whole feeling of the piece. It’s strange when a photograph teaches you something you didn’t intend, but that’s usually a sign you’re on the right track.

“Staring at the Sun—V.2,” Whole Plate Tintype—November 30, 2025 - Las Cruces, New Mexico

The chemistry added its own voice, too. I shot it wide open with an 1872 Dallmeyer 3B lens, using natural New Mexico light. Because the developer had no alcohol in it, the plate is full of sweeping, ghostlike marks, patterns that feel like turbulence or weather. Those imperfections have become one of the things I trust most about collodion. They reveal the atmosphere of the moment in a way nothing else can.

This little setup feels like the start of a new thread, a kind of still-life cosmology. Small figures, simple objects, big questions. I won’t say more yet, but I’m excited about where this can go.

I’ll keep at it and see what develops ;-)