Putting Lipstick On a Pig

You’ve heard the saying, right? “Putting lipstick on a pig.” Trying to dress something up to make it more palatable or appealing when, deep down, it’s still just a pig (no offense to pigs). No matter how much gloss or glitter you apply, the truth remains stubbornly beneath the surface. It’s a futile act of denial. Yet, we do it anyway. Why? Because facing reality, raw and unfiltered, is terrifying.

Let’s get real for a moment. What are you putting lipstick on? Your art? Your career? Your relationships? Maybe even yourself? I’d bet there’s at least one thing in your life you’re trying to disguise, hoping it’ll pass muster under closer scrutiny. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: if you know, others probably do too. We’re not as good at hiding as we think we are.

For years, I tried to dress things up to make my work—and myself—look more appealing, more acceptable. It’s exhausting. Worse, it’s dishonest. The turning point for me came through my obsession with art, philosophy, and psychology. They handed me an unexpected gift: the ability to toss the lipstick in the trash and embrace life for what it is—fully and unconditionally.

There’s a strange, profound freedom in stripping everything down to its essence. It’s about knowing who you are, what you’re doing, and most importantly, why you’re doing it. It’s about standing firmly in your truth—warts, wrinkles, and all. Of course, none of this erases the existential dread we all carry. But it lets you face it head-on, without pretense.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a sage possessing all the answers; far from it. I’m as susceptible to the human condition as anyone else. Death anxiety, self-doubt, the gnawing ache of impermanence—it’s all there. But here’s the difference: I’ve stopped fighting it. I’ve stopped pretending it’s not there. Instead, I acknowledge it, sit with it, and even let it guide me. It’s not about triumphing over these fears but learning to live with them, unvarnished and unapologetic.

So, what would happen if you ditched the lipstick? What would your art, your life, or your relationships look like if you let them be exactly what they are? No dressing up, no cover-ups, just the raw, unadulterated truth. It’s scary, sure. But maybe, just maybe, it’s also the most honest and liberating thing you’ll ever do.

Jean-Paul Sartre said, "Man is condemned to be free." That freedom, for Sartre, is both exhilarating and terrifying because it comes with the weight of full responsibility. There’s no script, no preordained path—just the choices we make and the truths we embrace. In the context of ditching the lipstick, Sartre’s idea of freedom means owning your life completely, without excuses or illusions. It’s not about perfection or acceptance from others; it’s about the radical act of living authentically, no matter how messy or unpolished it looks.

When you accept this freedom, you also accept the burden of it. You’re no longer hiding behind societal expectations or personal delusions. You’re standing in the open, exposed, with all your imperfections on display. But in that vulnerability lies the real beauty. Because when you create—whether it’s art, relationships, or meaning itself—from a place of authenticity, you’re not just living; you’re transcending. That’s the kind of freedom Sartre was talking about. And maybe that’s the kind of freedom we all need to stop putting lipstick on pigs and start facing life as it really is—can you imagine?

Dance in the mystery of it all! Embrace the absurd—revolt against the meaninglessness!

The Same Thing, Over And Over Again...

"Illuminated Sunflower" from my project, "In the Shadow of Sun Mountain". A whole plate, toned cyanotype print from a wet collodion negative.

I’m writing this in response to my image, “Illuminated Sunflower,” that I posted yesterday. Here are some of the comments/responses:
“It’s strange looking but familiar.”
“Is it real?”
“I’ve never seen a sunflower that looks like that.”
“How did you do that?”
”Is it manipulated?”

MY RANT
Have you noticed that, as photographers or artists, we tend to follow what’s “accepted” and recognizable in photography? In other words, we make the same images that we’ve seen a million times over and over again. It’s almost like we’re in a trance or robotic. We have a very difficult time doing anything else.

These images are everywhere out there. Go to any “fine art photography” group online and you’ll see that 90%+ of the pictures are easily recognizable—same content, just a different photographer.

You’ll see old barns in empty fields and abandoned places (usually a farm or an old warehouse). Autumn leaves in a bowl or just on the ground. Foggy, misty landscape scenes. And any kind of flower in a vase. How about an old piece of farm equipment (tractors, old trucks, etc.)? National parks are always in the mix—a large format photograph of any recognizable landscape, especially anything from Yosemite National Park. I call these images “sunset and driftwood pictures”. Most of the pictures are (manipulated) digital images, or in some groups, there will be a few large format black and white film pictures that are scanned and made into digital prints. And some even make silver gelatin prints. But the numbers are going down fast. Regardless of the process, the content will be the same.

Before you send me a nasty email, let me say that there’s nothing wrong with doing any of that type of work! Obviously, the masses love it. It sells pictures, no doubt, and if that’s your hustle, more power to you. But creatively, I feel like these types of photographs fall short—way short. I feel like I’m listening to a broken record, playing the same part over and over again. Nothing new. It feels like visual torture to me sometimes. And it’s derivative.

We are conditioned to respond to familiar things. I get it. It’s kind of like, “Oh! I recognize that and I know people think it’s important, so I like it too!”. Those kinds of feelings and responses are embedded in photographers’ minds—so they keep making pictures that people will recognize and like. Commercial photographers are bound by this obligation. They need to sell pictures. As fine artists, we’re not bound to this way of working or thinking. In fact, we should reject it completely.

How do we do that? In my mind, there are three ways to accomplish this. The first is unique content—what’s in the picture. This can also include the context of the image. Your narrative can support something that’s been seen before if it’s a meaningful part of the story. Second, is the way the image is made (what process). And third, how you produce the image/print (post-production printing).

I know that influence is incessant; we really can’t get away from it. We bring everything we know and have seen to the image we’re making. And it’s very difficult to “pass” on the obvious, recognizable image. I think this is where experimentation and exploration can pay big creative dividends. Get out of the habit of only making pictures in “good” light or only composing in the way that you’ve seen. Try new things and break the rules. Play with optics, processes, and even post-production stuff (again, I’m talking about printing here). Do your best to make images of scenes or objects that you would never normally photograph. Then, play with the way you make them. If you’re lucky, you’ll discover a new way to work that supports your story, and the pictures will be interesting to look at! You’ll discover ways to see things that you’ve never really seen before.

Otto Rank said, “What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.” I believe that. Art can be a powerful way for you to experience and understand life. It can give you a way to tackle the big questions in life and find meaning and purpose. E.O. Wilson came up with a word in the 1980s. “Biophilia” (it’s a book actually), which means “the love of life”. I do my best every day to be grateful, humble, and love life as much as I can.

“A River of Wood”—a cyanotype print on Canson Vellum (Tracing) paper.

“A River of Wood”—a Palladiotype print for reference—from the wet collodion negative posted here.

Three sheets of paper in an iodizing bath. These will become calotypes (paper negatives). This is the first step.

Three sheets of freshly iodized paper. These will become calotypes (paper negatives). I usually iodize six sheets at a time.