Editing Artwork For My Book

Writing is an exercise in balance. It's the skill of retaining a reader's interest for an extended period, guiding them through the intricacies of your story. And let’s be honest—it’s hard to do well.

As a visual artist, I’ve spent years working in mediums I deeply understand: photography and visual arts. Writing, though? That’s a newer addition to my creative repertoire. Am I a writer? Maybe. Ask me again after you’ve read my book. For now, I’ll say this: I’m proud of the work I’ve done, but I’m acutely aware of the challenges. Writing isn’t about grammar or structure alone—it’s about connection. It’s about creating something that resonates, that lingers. Time will be the judge of whether I’ve succeeded.

In contrast, when it comes to visual art, I know my footing. I’ve spent decades refining my craft, immersed in observation, thought, and exploration. Despite my confidence, I find myself at a crucial juncture. I’m editing the visuals for my book—selecting which photographs and artworks will make it to print. The process is as exciting as it is painstaking. With over 200 pieces to choose from, I’m paring it down to 50, maybe 75. Every cut feels like a sacrifice.

How do I choose? For me, it’s all about context—how each image aligns with the narrative. The connection between the visuals and the text has to be seamless. Every photograph, every piece of artwork, must do more than look beautiful; it must amplify the story, offering a lens into its deeper layers.

This process reminds me of something essential: storytelling, whether through words or images, isn’t about showing everything—it’s about showing the right things. It’s about creating space for meaning, for resonance. And if I can do that, then maybe—just maybe—I’ll have a successful piece of work.

I still remember the first time I encountered the term homo narrans. The idea struck me immediately: storytelling, not language or reasoning, is what sets humans apart from other species. It suggests that we make decisions based on the coherence of stories rather than cold, hard logic. That resonates deeply with me. Storytelling isn’t just something we do—it’s how we make sense of our world, how we uncover meaning, and how we better understand ourselves.

Humans, though, carry an extraordinary burden. We’re the only creatures who know we’re alive and, someday, will die. That knowledge—whether we admit it or not—is crushing. Most of us suppress it, carrying the weight unconsciously. But it shows up, often in destructive ways, shaping our behavior and relationships in ways we don’t always recognize.

I see it every day. People walking around, bogged down by what some thinkers call the "overabundance of consciousness." There’s even a theory that our awareness of mortality—our recognition of death—was an evolutionary misstep. It’s hard not to feel that sometimes. But I also know this: if we hadn’t evolved the ability to deny and distort the reality of death, we wouldn’t have survived. That’s clear to me. Fear would have paralyzed us, kept us from taking risks, from facing danger, from living.

Think about it. We drive cars, walk across busy streets, play contact sports—all things that carry real risk. If we were constantly aware of what could go wrong, we’d be immobilized. And in our younger years, we pushed those limits even further. Some of us didn’t make it. I’ve written about those moments—stories of risk-taking and the tragic outcomes they sometimes led to. And yet, we still carry on, fueled by the unspoken belief: it won’t happen to me. That denial is what makes action possible, what allows us to survive, even thrive.

This dynamic fascinates me. The way we navigate mortality—the lies we tell ourselves, the unconscious bargains we strike—is at the heart of what it means to be human. As I’ve studied these ideas, I’ve come to understand just how central this denial is to our survival. It’s a feature of our evolution, not a flaw.

I’m excited to see these ideas come to life in my book. If you're interested, stay tuned to this blog for updates on its release date. I’m still deciding the best format: hardcover, softcover, audiobook, Kindle? Maybe all of the above. Stay tuned. It’s coming soon.

The Origins of Evil

The title of my book includes the phrase “The Origins of Evil.” The full title is In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: The Psychology of Othering and the Origins of Evil. I want to share some of the writing I’ve been working on around this theme.

Humans have grappled with the concept of evil ever since we became conscious—since we gained the ability to understand what others feel, a capacity tied to the theory of mind. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been preoccupied with the ways humans treat one another—whether it’s the large-scale horror of war or the quiet, everyday conflicts between neighbors. Ernest Becker’s perspective on this resonates deeply with me, and his work continues to shape how I think about these issues.

Ernest Becker viewed evil not as an external force or inherent quality but as a human creation, deeply rooted in our existential condition. According to Becker, the psychological strategies we use to deal with the fear of death give rise to evil. At its core, Becker saw evil as the destructive outcomes of humanity's denial of mortality, expressed through the dehumanization, domination, and destruction of others.

Evil as the Byproduct of Death Denial

Becker believed that humans, aware of their mortality, develop cultural worldviews or meaning systems that give their lives significance and offer a sense of symbolic immortality. These worldviews—whether religious, political, or ideological—help shield individuals from existential terror. However, when these worldviews are threatened, people react defensively and often violently. Evil, in Becker’s terms, is what results when individuals or societies use domination, violence, or oppression to preserve their illusions of immortality and meaning.

The Role of "Otherness" in Evil

For Becker, the creation of the "other" lies at the heart of human evil. To preserve their meaning systems, people project their fears and insecurities onto those who hold different worldviews. By dehumanizing others, they justify violence, exclusion, or oppression. In this way, evil is often framed as a necessary act to protect the "good"—a tragic irony Becker frequently emphasized.

Evil as an Attempt to Eradicate Evil

Becker saw evil as a paradox: much of human violence is committed in the name of eliminating evil. Whether through religious crusades, genocides, or wars, societies often justify atrocities as moral imperatives to rid the world of perceived threats. However, this effort to purge the world of "evil" only perpetuates it. Becker argued that this cycle is driven by humanity's unconscious fear of mortality and the desire to assert control over an uncontrollable reality.

Heroism and Evil

Becker connected evil to humanity’s desperate pursuit of heroism, the drive to achieve significance in the face of death. He argued that this pursuit can lead to both constructive and destructive outcomes. When heroism involves creativity, compassion, or self-transcendence, it can inspire greatness. However, when it involves domination over others, it leads to evil. He noted that totalitarian ideologies and imperial conquests often stem from this darker side of heroism, as leaders and followers alike seek to assert their worldview at the expense of others.

Evil as the Fear of Impermanance and Insignificance

Evil, in his view, is also rooted in humanity’s fear of impermanence and insignificance. The knowledge of our impermanence drives people to cling to meaning systems that promise eternal significance, or symbolic immortality. When these systems are threatened by alternative perspectives or "others," people lash out. This existential anxiety becomes the psychological basis for atrocities as individuals and societies attempt to assert their importance by diminishing or annihilating others.

Systemic Evil

Becker recognized that evil often becomes systemic, embedded in cultural and institutional frameworks. When groups define themselves as morally or spiritually superior, they create structures that dehumanize and marginalize others. For example, he linked the violence of colonization to the death anxiety of the colonizers, who sought to suppress indigenous cultures to reinforce their own symbolic systems. This has happened throughout humanity to a wide range of marginalized populations. You can see it today, played out all over the world.

Ernest Becker Quotes about Evil

"Men cause evil by wanting heroically to triumph over it, because man is a frightened animal who tries to triumph, an animal who will not admit his own insignificance." This underscores the paradoxical nature of evil—how humanity's denial of insignificance leads to destructive heroism.

"Man’s natural and inevitable urge to deny mortality and achieve a heroic self-image are the root causes of human evil." This directly ties evil to the existential dread that drives people to deny their creatureliness and seek immortality through domination.”

"The need for self-esteem entails the denigration of others." Becker saw the quest for personal or cultural significance as inherently competitive, often leading to the devaluation or destruction of those perceived as "threats."

The Solution to the Problem of Evil: Consciousness of Mortality

Becker believed that the solution to evil lies in confronting our fear of death rather than projecting it onto others.

I’ve written a lot about how artists can channel this awareness into their work, using it as both a buffer against anxiety and a constructive, non-destructive way to confront and process death anxiety.

He advocated for humility and self-awareness, urging humanity to recognize the shared condition of mortality. By facing our fears head-on, we could reduce the cycles of violence and othering that perpetuate evil.

In Becker’s framework, evil is not inherent to human nature but a symptom of our existential condition. It arises from our denial of death, our need for meaning, and our tendency to dehumanize others to sustain the fragile illusions that protect us from existential terror.

His work challenges us to confront these truths with honesty and courage, offering a path toward a more compassionate and self-aware existence.

“Art is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an aesthetic end.”

— James Joyce

In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: Almost Ready to Publish

A Summary of my book, In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: The Psychology of Othering and the Origins of Evil

I’m very close to finishing my book. It’s exciting and frightening at the same time. I tend to overthink and overdo things like this. The exciting part is that I feel I’m contributing something important to the world (my immortality project that buffers my existential terror). I know it sounds serious and maybe even a bit arrogant, but it’s important work to me, and I feel it’s the best I’ve made so far in my life.

Nothing is ever perfect; I don’t even like that word, but my book is as close to that idea as I can get right now. For the past several months, I’ve put everything on hold so I could finish this. I procrastinated doing it because I knew how difficult it was going to be. I’d written the bulk of the book in Colorado (over the winters there) and just had to tackle the editing and revising. I’ll have a rough draft of the text very soon.

Who’s my audience? Anyone who’s interested in deconstructing existentialism and art. In other words, creative people that struggle with being, meaning, and significance. If you like art, psychology, philosophy, and history (plus a lot of crazy personal stories), you’ll like this book.

Chapter Six is almost 100 pages of artwork. It’s the final chapter of the book. I’ve just started the editing process for that portion. That will be a lot easier for me than the text has been. I hope to include a lot of work that’s never been seen before. I have some of my old Polaroid work from the late 1980s and early 1990s, some of my abstract, naive paintings that haven’t been published, etc. Plus the work from my time in the mountains of Colorado—that’s the bulk of the artwork—platium-palladium prints, talbotypes, calotypes, RA-4 color prints, cyanotypes, kallitypes, etc. all from wet and dry collodion negatives or material printed on contact.

Throughout Chapter Two (A Phenomenological Autobiography), I’ve included old, personal photographs of family and friends. It was the most difficult chapter to write for me. I’ve written stories about my life and how those experiences shaped me and led me to being an artist. I felt that it was important to share some personal, difficult stories in order for the work to make sense. I think I succeeded; the readers will tell me if I did or not.

In the book, I sought to distill decades of artistic exploration, existential inquiry, and deeply personal reflection into a single work. It is a book about reckoning—with history, with the self, and with the unrelenting shadow of mortality (the denial of death and death anxiety). As both an artist and a thinker, I have always gravitated toward the difficult, the ineffable, the truths we turn from in our daily lives. This book represents my most earnest attempt to confront those truths head-on.

At its core, this book deconstructs the human condition, peeling back the layers of history and psychology to interrogate the mechanisms that shape us: death anxiety, cultural worldviews, and the ways we “other” those who do not fit within our carefully constructed paradigms. Drawing heavily on the work of Ernest Becker and Terror Management Theory, I explore how our collective denial of death fuels cycles of violence, fear, and division while also propelling creativity, culture, and heroism.

My writing is not just an intellectual exercise. It’s deeply personal, woven with stories of my own life—moments of loss, resilience, and awakening that have shaped me as an artist and a human being. From the landscapes of Colorado, where the Tabeguache Ute once thrived, to the internal landscapes of addiction, grief, and redemption, this book traverses terrains both literal and metaphorical.

The art itself—photographs of sacred landscapes, abstract paintings born of existential struggle—serves as both a mirror and a meditation. These works are not merely illustrations of theory; they are my way of grappling with the weight of impermanence. As Otto Rank observed, the artist transmutes inner turmoil into external creation and, through that process, finds a measure of meaning amidst the chaos—that’s what I’ve tried to do.

I don’t pretend that this book offers definitive answers. Instead, it is an invitation—a call to reflect, to question, to feel. If it succeeds, it will stir something in the reader, prompting a deeper engagement with the fragility and beauty of our shared existence.

In the Shadow of Sun Mountain is my offering—a testament to the power of art to illuminate the shadows, to reckon with history, and to remind us, as fleeting as our time may be, of the profound significance of simply being. And some may even find the answers to how I’ve “come to terms with death” through a creative life, gratitude, humility, and awe.

Denial: Self-Deception, False Beliefs, and the Origins of the Human Mind

Denial: Self-Deception, False Beliefs, and the Origins of the Human Mind by Ajit Varki and Danny Brower

Happy 2025! I hope this year is a good year for you.

A couple of years ago, I read a book called Denial: Self-Deception, False Beliefs, and the Origins of the Human Mind, by Ajit Varki and Danny Brower. I’ve written about it before here. It played an important role in my studies. It deals with our evolutionary psychology. Evolutionary psychology is something rarely considered when thinking about why we are the way we are. This book gives some very interesting and plausible explanations for our behavior.

They propose a provocative hypothesis that marries the Theory of Mind (TOM) with Mortality Awareness through the Mind Over Reality Transition (MORT) to explain one of humanity’s most perplexing characteristics: the denial of death. Their central argument is rooted in the paradox that human beings, uniquely aware of their own mortality, have also evolved mechanisms to suppress the existential terror this awareness entails. This duality, they argue, is a key to understanding not just human psychology but also the evolutionary processes that shaped our species.

The Evolutionary Conundrum of Awareness and Denial

Human beings possess an extraordinary ability to recognize that others have minds—a skill encompassed in the Theory of Mind. This capacity enables us to infer the intentions, beliefs, and emotions of others, facilitating complex social interactions and cooperation. However, TOM is not merely an interpersonal tool; it also turns inward, allowing us to imagine our future selves. This introspective ability inevitably leads to the realization of our own mortality. An organism's realization that it will eventually die marks both an evolutionary milestone and a potential psychological roadblock.

Varki and Brower posit that this acute awareness of mortality could have been paralyzing. A creature consumed by the fear of its own inevitable demise might struggle to survive, let alone reproduce. Natural selection, however, provided a solution: the cognitive ability to deny uncomfortable truths. This capacity for self-deception—what Varki and Brower term the "Mind Over Reality Transition" (MORT)—allowed early humans to sidestep the crippling anxiety of mortality while retaining the evolutionary advantages of self-awareness and social cognition.

Denial as a Survival Mechanism

The denial of death operates as an adaptive mechanism that balances the benefits of self-awareness against its existential costs. This balance is crucial. Without an understanding of mortality, humans would lack the foresight and caution necessary to avoid life-threatening dangers. But without denial, the dread of death could lead to apathy, despair, or an inability to take risks—all of which would hinder survival and reproductive success.

This interplay between TOM and MORT reveals an elegant evolutionary solution: our minds are hardwired to accept a paradoxical truth. We know, intellectually, that we are mortal, but we also possess the psychological mechanisms to compartmentalize, suppress, or distort this knowledge. This is not a flaw, but a feature that allows us to concentrate on the tasks of life—building relationships, raising children, creating art, and seeking meaning—without succumbing to the overwhelming presence of death.

The Role of Culture and Terror Management

While evolution provided the foundation for denying death, culture built the scaffolding. Varki and Brower’s ideas resonate strongly with Terror Management Theory (TMT), which suggests that cultural worldviews and symbolic systems are human constructs designed to mitigate death anxiety. Religion, art, philosophy, and even societal norms function as buffers against the existential terror of mortality. They provide frameworks that promise continuity—whether through an afterlife, a legacy, or the enduring influence of one’s creations.

“Existential Dread #9,” 9” x 12” acrylic and charcoal on paper.

This painting serves as a visual exploration of the TOM-MORT hypothesis. The abstraction invites viewers to project their fears and hopes, echoing the way denial itself operates. By obscuring the harsh edges of reality, the mind creates space for connection, creativity, and meaning. Yet, the tension in the painting suggests that denial is not absolute; the void beneath remains visible, demanding contemplation.

It’s both a personal and universal expression of the struggle with mortality. It asks us to confront the void while acknowledging the evolutionary and cultural scaffolding that has allowed us to thrive in its shadow. This piece does not offer resolution but instead invites the viewer into the complex interplay of awareness, denial, and the human condition—a visual testament to the insights into the mind’s delicate dance with reality.

These cultural constructs do more than soothe individual fears; they reinforce social cohesion. Shared beliefs about life and death foster unity, enabling groups to work together toward common goals. In this sense, denial of death is not merely a personal defense mechanism but a social glue that holds communities together.

Implications for Understanding Human Behavior

The TOM-MORT hypothesis invites us to reconsider many aspects of human behavior through the lens of denial. It explains why humans are uniquely capable of both profound creativity and devastating self-destruction. Our ability to deny death enables us to take risks, innovate, and envision futures that might never come to pass. But it also blinds us to long-term consequences, fueling behaviors that threaten our survival, such as environmental degradation and warfare.

Understanding the evolutionary roots of death denial also sheds light on the psychological struggles of modern life. In a world where traditional cultural buffers are eroding, individuals are increasingly confronted with unmediated mortality awareness. The resulting anxiety manifests in various ways, from existential despair to compulsive consumption. Yet, the same cognitive flexibility that enables denial also holds the potential for growth. By confronting the void and integrating our awareness of mortality into our lives, we can find new ways to navigate the human condition.

Varki and Brower’s TOM-MORT hypothesis offers a profound insight into the evolutionary origins of death denial. It reminds us that our ability to deny uncomfortable truths is not a weakness but a survival strategy—one that has allowed us to thrive in the face of existential uncertainty. At the same time, it challenges us to recognize the limitations of this denial. In a world where our actions increasingly have global and long-term consequences, the time may have come to reconcile our evolutionary heritage with the demands of modern existence. Only by understanding the roots of our denial can we hope to transcend it, transforming the fear of death into a catalyst for living fully and responsibly.

Humans Are Emotional—Not Rational

It shouldn’t be news to tell you that humans are irrational and emotional.

As human beings, we often pride ourselves on being rational creatures. We point to our advancements in science, our mastery of complex tools, and our ability to build societies governed by rules and logic. However, when it comes to matters of life and death, we reveal a different, more primal truth: we are emotional beings. This distinction becomes glaringly apparent when we confront the existential reality of our mortality. Death anxiety and the mechanisms we employ to manage this fear expose the raw emotional underpinnings of human behavior, challenging the veneer of rationality that we so often wear.

At the heart of our emotional nature is the profound discomfort with the knowledge that we will one day cease to exist—impermanence and finitude. Unlike other animals, humans possess a heightened awareness of mortality. This awareness creates a paradox: we have the intellectual capacity to understand our finite nature, but emotionally, we find this knowledge unbearable (Half Animal and Half Symbolic). Ernest Becker, in The Denial of Death, argues that much of human behavior is driven by a need to escape the paralyzing fear of death. This fear is not something we reason through; it is something we feel deeply, viscerally, and often uncontrollably.

Terror Management Theory (TMT) builds on Becker's insights, demonstrating how our emotional responses to death anxiety shape cultural worldviews, self-esteem, and interpersonal behaviors. According to TMT, humans create and cling to cultural systems that provide a sense of meaning, order, and immortality. These systems, whether religious, nationalistic, or ideological, are less about logical coherence and more about emotional comfort. They serve as psychological defenses (coping mechanisms), buffering us against the terror of our inevitable demise.

Consider the way people react when their belief systems are challenged. Rationally, one might expect open-minded discussion or a willingness to adapt to new evidence. Yet, more often than not, such challenges evoke defensiveness, hostility, or even aggression. This is because these belief systems are not merely intellectual constructs; they are emotional lifelines that protect us from existential dread (meaning system buffers). When they are threatened, it feels as though the foundation of our existence is being shaken, triggering a fight-or-flight response that is anything but rational.

This emotional foundation extends beyond our cultural worldviews, or meaning systems, to our personal identities. Self-esteem, for instance, is deeply tied to our ability to stave off death anxiety. TMT research shows that when people are reminded of their mortality, they often seek validation and strive for achievements that affirm their worth within their cultural framework. These actions are not driven by logical analysis but by an emotional need to feel significant in the face of insignificance.

Art and creativity provide another lens through which to examine the emotional nature of human responses to mortality. Artistic expressions, whether through painting, literature, or photography, often grapple with themes of death and immortality. These works resonate not because they offer rational solutions to the problem of mortality but because they evoke and articulate the emotions associated with it. They allow us to confront our fears, find solace, and connect with others who share our struggles.

The emotionality of human beings is perhaps most evident in the collective rituals surrounding death. Funerals, memorials, and acts of remembrance are rarely about logical considerations. Instead, they are about processing grief, celebrating life, and reaffirming our connections to one another and to the cultural narratives that give our lives meaning. These rituals are deeply symbolic, and their power lies in their ability to address emotional needs that logic cannot satisfy.

Acknowledging our emotional nature does not diminish our humanity; rather, it deepens our understanding of it. By recognizing that our responses to death anxiety are rooted in emotion, we can better understand the behaviors, beliefs, and systems that define our lives. This recognition also invites compassion—for ourselves and for others. It reminds us that beneath the facade of rationality, we are all grappling with the same fundamental fears and seeking the same solace in the face of the unknown.

In the end, it is our emotions, not our reason, that drive us to create, to connect, and to seek meaning. Our attempts to manage death anxiety may not always be rational, but they are profoundly human. They reveal our capacity for hope, resilience, and imagination in the face of mortality. And it is through these emotional endeavors that we find not only a way to endure but a way to transcend the limitations of our finite existence.

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!

Nihilistic, Pessimistic, or Realistic?

A.D. Wallace once described the distinction between radical and moderate pessimism. Radical pessimism, he said, is just called pessimism, while moderate pessimism is called realism. That really resonates with me.

It confuses me why so many people think that being honest and truthful about reality is negative. I’m a truth-seeker, even when the truth is difficult to hear.

The hollowness of it all this time of year hits like a gut punch, doesn’t it? It does for me. The cultural machine revs into overdrive, parading its constructs like a golden calf. For many, it’s “the most wonderful time of the year.” For me? It’s a study in futility, a theater of the absurd dressed in twinkling lights and synthetic cheer. Call me a pessimist if you like—but am I? Or am I just daring to peel back the glittery veneer and point to the uncomfortable truth we’d rather ignore?

Every year, we strap ourselves into this holiday hamster wheel. We buy gifts nobody really wants, often on credit we can’t afford. We drag out pagan symbols, slap on a thin coat of religious rhetoric, and call it tradition. The collective irony and hypocrisy are staggering. And yet, most people would defend it all with tooth and nail, convinced I’m missing the “magic” of it. But I don’t think I am. I think I’m seeing it for exactly what it is.

Look, celebrate whatever you want, however you want—it’s no skin off my back. My point is that, as a culture, we’ve collectively signed up for a ritual of empty commerce and shallow pretense. I opted out years ago. These charades offer me no existential comfort; they churn up more disquiet than solace. Let’s call it what it is: capitalism, draped in the illusion of love and goodwill. The irony deepens when you consider how much of this seasonal spending binge props up industries churning out cheap, disposable products, often imported from halfway around the world. It’s a snake devouring its own tail, all while claiming to serve some higher purpose.

Why do we do this to ourselves? What primal force drives us to act so irrationally, year after year? The answer isn’t buried too deep; it’s fear—specifically, the fear of our own impermanence. Death anxiety, plain and simple. And rather than confront it, we dress it up in tinsel and call it a celebration.

Do you know what a great existential buffer is? Gratitude. Why is gratitude something we schedule? Why can’t we express love and appreciation for the people in our lives in March or August—or whenever the urge strikes us? Why do we let the calendar and commerce dictate the timing of something so personal and profound? The idea that love needs a price tag or a season feels absurd to me. It’s as if we’ve been sold a lie, conned into thinking that authentic connection requires a receipt. It’s ridiculous. Worse, it feels like we’re willing participants in a scam, duped into playing the part of the fool, year after year.

Regardless of how I see things, I sincerely wish everyone the best in 2025. I have a sense it might not be our brightest year, but I hope we all find a way to endure it. Whatever challenges come our way, remember this: it’s all temporary, and in the vast expanse of existence, it’s ultimately meaningless. Let that thought anchor you—it might just offer a glimmer of solace in the darkest moments.

Symbolism Over Substance or Substance Over Symbolism?

Those are the questions. And I think I can offer an answer. Or at least food for thought.

I’ve been spending every morning writing—getting up early, making coffee, and writing.

It’s been wonderful. I love it. I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

There’s been a reoccurring idea (or a couple of questions) for me as I write about my life, these theories, and art.

The questions I’ve been considering aren’t new to me. But for whatever reason, they keep coming up as I write. I’m trying to connect my ideas to art, life, and death. I’m happy to report that I’ve found ways to do that through using these questions, or rather comparing these questions to my writing and art.

The questions are: symbolism over substance? or substance over symbolism? Or?

I see this “problem” in people trying to be creative or trying to appear to be creative (imposter stuff). It’s kind of like virtue signaling in the art world. They don’t seem to understand the dilemma—some Dunning Kruger stuff going on.

I recently watched a video of a guy telling his viewers he can save them $100K and four years of their lives in 20 minutes (watch his video and be sure to like and subscribe! LOL). He claimed to debunk everything taught in undergraduate school while majoring in art. These videos may get clicks, but they are so far off the mark. I clicked on it and watched it for reasons that had nothing to do with what he was selling.

He was so far off about what he was saying, but you wouldn’t know that if you’ve never been to undergraduate school. He was showing abstract art from big names throughout history and asking the question, “Don’t you think you can do that?” Ridiculous. Text out of context is a pretext. In other words, you can grab anything, take it out of context, and make up anything you want about it. It’s a logical fallacy known as “contextomy or quote mining.” It’s a form of confirmation bias too. It’s bad to do.

Remember, undergraduate school provides more than classes on drawing, painting, and photography. You have to take other classes like writing, science, and history. It’s a liberal arts degree—it should give you the tools to have a basic understanding of a lot of things, not just art. He left all of that out of his video.

Let’s move on.

It brings me to my point: substance or symbolism?

Let me explain.

First, I want to discuss these in the context of art—but it would apply to your life in general—it does mine. It makes sense to define what we’re asking or talking about—first things first, in that order.

SYMBOLISM
I define symbolism as prioritizing symbols, imagery, and representations that convey cultural, emotional, or ideological meaning over technical execution. The artwork’s value is tied to the ideas, emotions, or concepts it symbolizes, rather than its craftsmanship or deeper intellectual substance. There’s a risk here. The work can be perceived as superficial or hollow if the symbolism isn’t backed by genuine exploration. Or it might lack lasting resonance or fail to engage the viewer deeply if the symbolic layer is all it offers.

SUBSTANCE
I define substance as work focused on the technical, regardless of whether it communicates through explicit symbolism. It prioritizes depth, exploration, and intrinsic meaning over the use of obvious or recognizable symbols. The value lies in how the art is created—its process, materials, or execution—not its meaning or symbolism.

In my opinion, good art balances symbolism and substance. Symbolism helps anchor meaning and make art more accessible. Substance ensures the work has depth, originality, and a lasting impact.

If you’ve read my book Chemical Pictures, you’ve likely come across the phrase “Concept AND Craft.” That’s how I frame essential questions about making art—you need both. One without the other is like a one-armed wallpaper hanger: inefficient at best, doomed at worst.

I’ve spoken about this often over the years, sometimes passionately. Some people push back, arguing that art doesn’t need to be explained. I agree—art doesn’t require explanation, but it does need context. There’s a fine line. Can you suffocate your work in artist statements and technical jargon? Absolutely. You can talk your work into oblivion. I’ve seen it happen: artists masking uncertainty with a cascade of art-world buzzwords, hoping to dazzle or confuse. It doesn’t work. People see through that.

There’s wisdom in Shakespeare’s line, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Overselling or defending your art too aggressively reveals insecurity. Be mindful of how much you explain—substance should speak for itself. Balance meaning and execution and justify both.

Writing this book has been a transformative experience in my creative life. It’s shown me how much I’ve grown and how much more there is to learn. I like what Socates said: the only thing he really knew was that he knew nothing. I can relate.

Authenticity—being true to yourself—comes with time. Cultural pressures can be relentless when you’re building a career, raising a family, or trying to establish yourself as an artist. You’re often performing to fit in. But age changes that. You learn to stand by who you are, regardless of others’ opinions. Truth reigns supreme with age. A wonderful place to be.

“When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.” Anaïs Nin

Writing My Book and Telling My Stories

“In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: The Psychology of Othering and the Origins of Evil”

I wanted to share an update about my book. I’m excited about it!

I devote daily time to writing, reading, researching, making art, and most of all, thinking.

So far, my book breaks down something like this:

1
Introduction and Artist Statement
This chapter sets the stage for the book, explaining its purpose and relevance. It addresses some key questions. What is the book about, and why should a person read it? I introduce the themes, goals, and personal motivations driving this work. I also include my artist statement. It lays the foundation for the art itself, both technically and conceptually.

2
A Phenomenological Autobiography
Through personal stories, I explore how my life experiences have shaped my creative journey. This chapter demonstrates the deep connection between my artistic drive and the existential questions addressed by Becker's theories and Terror Management Theory (TMT). By connecting my own narrative to these frameworks, I provide insight into how creativity becomes a response to death anxiety or existential anxiety.

3
Ernest Becker
In this chapter, I delve into Becker’s groundbreaking theories, the denial of death and death anxiety. I supplement these with insights from anthropology, psychology, philosophy, theology, and art. I explain Becker's concept of the origins of evil, examining its definition and mechanisms, and scrutinizing the frequent attempts by humanity to eradicate perceived evil through acts of evil, using violence and dehumanization (oh, the irony!).

4
Terror Management Theory (TMT)
This chapter focuses on TMT and its relationship to Becker’s ideas, with a specific case study: the Tabeguache Ute Indians. I analyze how European colonizers used othering (Manifest Destiny) to justify acts of genocide and ethnocide against Native Americans, demonstrating the devastating consequences of existential anxiety, or death anxiety, on human behavior.

5
Artwork
Here, I present the artistic creations inspired by the concepts discussed in the previous chapters. This section ties theory and practice together, showing how my work embodies these existential and psychological themes. This chapter includes over a hundred photographic prints, paintings, and other visual media.

6
Essays
This chapter is a collection of essays I’ve written over the years, covering a range of topics from art and photography to philosophy and psychology. Along the way, you’ll find reviews and reflections on obscure ideas and peculiar subjects. The essays vary in length—some are just a few hundred words, while others span a couple of thousand. Their styles differ as well; some are explanatory, while others read more like personal journal entries.

Working It Out

It’s been a little over three years since I began writing this book and making art for it. In that time I’ve made considerable progress.

I’ve created a significant body of artwork, including the photographic prints for the book and several paintings. It has been an exciting journey, and I want to share it with those who have an interest in these theories and my work.

Drawing from the theories of Ernest Becker, Otto Rank, Terror Management Theory (TMT), and many others, I’ve used my personal experiences as a lens to investigate these existential questions. The work explores the psychology of othering, particularly through the historical lens of the Tabeguache Ute in Colorado, and delves into the roots of human evil—specifically, why people often mistreat those whose beliefs differ from their own.

I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how much I’ve enjoyed the writing process. It’s offered me profound insights into my identity and life experiences in ways I didn’t expect. Unlike photography, which captures a moment instantly, writing feels more akin to painting—it’s a slower, layered process. It generates ideas gradually, piece by piece, over time. This slower rhythm has been deeply rewarding, allowing ideas to mature and take shape in ways that feel both deliberate and organic.

A Tiny Preview of Some of My Stories

Jeanne and I spent the past week watching a Spanish series about a man who inherits the gift of premonitions from his mother. The story was intriguing and kept us engaged—it turned out to be a pretty enjoyable watch overall.

Watching it brought back memories of a trip I took to Mexico 36 years ago (see photo above). A group of friends traveled to Mazatlán, Mexico, to get out of the cold for a week—it was November 1988. One of our friends had a complete mental breakdown—he went into full-blown psychosis—at the end of the trip. It didn’t start until we were on the way home. The event lasted for several days. Like scenes from a horror film, I witnessed all of it firsthand. He ended up in a psychiatric hospital.

What happened? He went out one night with some locals—just two nights before the end of our trip. I tried to stop him but I couldn’t. He told me later that it involved methamphetamine, cocaine, and the Sinaloa Cartel (Cártel de Sinaloa).

What happened was surreal, a lot like the series we just watched. It prompted me to write about the experience in detail. I've come to understand that these kinds of experiences shaped both my creative life and my life in general. It’s like a long movie plot unfolding before me—the narrative arc—the more we observe, the more it reveals about who we are.

What I thought would never be relevant is central or key now to telling my story and the story of these theories I’m preoccupied with. In a lot of ways, it all fits together.

This story is in the second chapter of my book, which has about 15,000+ words so far and focuses on my family and friends. They are, in large part, the people who made me who I am.

From a young age, I was acutely aware of death—through tragic accidents, murder, suicide, drug addiction, war, and mental illness. These harsh realities seemed to loom around me. However, positive influences and uplifting experiences also surrounded me, shaping my early years.

The stories of my life begin around the age of eight and continue to the present day. I share memories of my mother, her deep love for humanity, and the lifelong battle she faced with mental illness. I also reflect on my grandmother’s fierce indignation whenever she heard racial slurs or witnessed people belittling those who were different. I’m so grateful for both of them.

I recount our family Thanksgiving dinners, where my mother would invite young men from the local Job Corps—African American, Native American, and Mexican American—making them welcome at our table every year. Our neighbors often didn’t know what to make of her; she was a profoundly progressive person, far ahead of her time.

One of the early stories recounts my heroin-addicted brother’s return from the Vietnam War. I write about the experience of traveling with my mother to the airport to pick him up. I’ve also written about my own experiences in the military, ten years after that, and the struggles I faced in its aftermath.

My writing delves into my time photographing dead bodies—gunshot wounds to the head, etc.—and the profound psychological impact it left on me.

I explore themes of drug use and overdoses, which have been a recurring presence in my life—friends and family dying from this kind of stuff. Most recently, my 61-year-old brother died in 2023 of methamphetamine toxcity. Alcohol and drug use was everywhere around me most of my life.

I witnessed a friend of mine shoot up Jack Daniels—yes, Jack Daniels, the whiskey. And yes, he put a needle in his arm and shot a syringe full of it into his vein. It was four o'clock in the morning—the party was still going, but there wasn’t any more cocaine available for him to shoot, snort, or smoke. I write about what he said, what he felt, etc. We gave him the nickname “Whiskey Pig” after that.

A few years later, his younger brother died of a drug overdose. During a lunch break from work, he bought some dope. He stopped at a red light in the middle of the city and injected the fentanyl-laced heroin he had just purchased. The dose was lethal—he died instantly, slumped over the steering wheel with the needle still in his arm.

These stories are my way of confronting those experiences and connecting them to the universal human search for meaning and the existential struggles that we all face. I explain how they have driven my creative life and the questions around existence.

My life is full of story after story about the struggles to exist—to cope with meaninglessness and insignificance. I’m sure I’m not the only one that could tell stories like these. However, they are uniquely mine and contrasted against the philosophical and psychological ideas around our existential struggles.

Isn't this the fundamental essence of existentialism? We are inherently searching for meaning in our lives when there is none. We crave significance and some kind of immortality that doesn’t exist. We lie and deny. We use our culture to provide meaning for us—we tranquilize ourselves with drugs, alcohol, shopping, fantasies, social media, fame, ideologies (religion, politics), or whatever can fill the void that faces us—mortality. It’s so clear to me.

Cultural constructs shape humanity, in my opinion. To me, most people are cuturally constructed meat puppets. Most people seem to be unaware of the importance of directly confronting and addressing the fundamental lie of existence—their mortality—and the consequences that ensue when they fail to do so.

That’s the theory of my book.

Existentialism, Absurdism, and Nihilism

It’s always a bit surprising to me when I meet creative people who aren’t into philosophy or psychology. To me, those topics are the backbone of a creative life—maybe that’s just my take—but they’ve always been a creative driver for me.

Philosophy and psychology offer so much to draw from as an artist. I've always been drawn to existentialism and consider myself an existential artist, incorporating elements of absurdism and nihilism into my work. That interest is actually what inspired me to write this.

If you’re curious, there are three philosophers you should definitely know about: Jean-Paul Sartre (Existentialism), Albert Camus (Absurdism), and Friedrich Nietzsche (Nihilism). They all wrestled with the big questions—why we’re here, what it all means, and how to navigate life’s inherent lack of meaning. Their ideas have shaped how I see the world, though for me, Ernest Becker and Terror Management Theory have added another layer that goes even deeper.

I’ll break down a bit about who these thinkers were and what they’re known for.

Jean-Paul Sartre, a French philosopher, lived from 1905 to 1980.

The term "existentialism" is commonly associated with him. I’m an existentialist. No question about that. But I lean into all of the ideas around existentialism. Jean-Paul Sartre's existentialist philosophy centered on the idea that humans have absolute freedom to create their own values, purpose, and meaning in life.

Sartre believed that humans are "condemned to be free" and that existence precedes essence. I agree with his sentiments. He thought freedom was the bigger issue. Becker made a similar argument about the fear of living. True freedom scares people—we want to be told what to do and how to live—hence culture.

The old Greek thinkers thought that “essence” preceded existence. In other words, everyone is born with a purpose. It's evident to me that this is not the case. Sartre meant we need to assign meaning to our lives—we need to find or create constructs that keep us going. That’s evident to me, and Becker/TMT drives this point home.

The meaningless in your life is a gift. You can assign any meaning you want to it. Life is fleeting. You’re entirely free to make your life mean something. That is true freedom.

Bad faith. Sartre defined "bad faith" as a central concept in his work that describes the act of self-deception, or deceiving oneself into not having the freedom to make choices. Sartre believed that people act in bad faith to avoid short-term pain but end up suffering long-term psychological consequences. He believed that people can only realize their full potential as human beings by making difficult choices. He also believed that people who act in bad faith are more like objects in the world than conscious human beings.

According to Sartre, we have complete freedom over our lives in a world without religion or objective meaning, but with enormous power comes immense responsibility. Let that sink in for a moment: you have the power to shape the life you want to live. Most people are like robots—programmed by culture—culturally constructed meat puppets. This time of year, I see it ramp up to the extremes.

You can make wise decisions for yourself, but how do you know which ones are good? How often do you act against your own self-interest and experience positive moments when things are going well for you?

Sartre died from pulmonary edema (“wet lungs”)—probably from smoking.

Albert Camus, a French/Algerian philosopher, lived from 1913 to 1960.

Albert Camus is the father of “absurdism.” He said, “The literal meaning of life is whatever you’re doing that prevents you from killing yourself.” Nothing could be more straightforward than that. At its core, Becker also discusses this concept, albeit from an existentialist perspective rather than an absurdist’s one. Your cultural worldview or meaning system is what sustains your existence. Period.

Camus addresses the search for meaning but says that the universe is indifferent to our need for meaning. This is where the concept of absurdity becomes relevant. It’s an adjective that’s defined as utterly or obviously senseless, illogical, or untrue; contrary to all reason or common sense; laughably foolish or false. According to Camus, our need and search for meaning are absurd. It’s meaningless. How absurd! Having said that, he doesn’t recommend suicide—that’s allowing the absurdity of life to win; he doesn’t recommend religion or any ideology (nationalism, capitalism, etc.); he called that philisophical suicide. He recommends facing the absurdity (a form of rebelling) and being content. His famous line is “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

“If the world were clear, art would not exist.”

— Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

Camus is saying that the very lack of clarity in the world—its absurdity—gives rise to art. And I would add that art (creative life) plays a major role in quelling death anxiety—maybe just another way of saying it. Art is humanity’s way of contending with the questions that have no final answers and finding beauty, connection, and expression within that struggle.

Camus died in a car accident in 1960.

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1901) was a German philosopher and critic.

People often cite Nietzsche as a nihilist. I suppose he was a kind of nihilist (and not), but he offered more in terms of thought and purpose than most nihilists do. His famous quote is “God is dead.” People frequently quote it, often taking it out of context. The full quote is: “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?”

Nietzsche intended the quote to reflect the changes he saw in European society at the time and to urge people to wake up to the rapid changes in Western culture. He was making a valid point in saying that Christianity was the foundation of meaning and purpose for almost two millenia, and now technology has taken its place, leaving people confused and depressed (or lost) trying to find meaning without religion. Can you imagine what he’d say today? Oy! He wanted to hasten nilhisim in the hope of getting past it—that's the optimistic par’t happen.

Speaking of artists inspired by philosophy, you can listen to Black Sabbath's "God is Dead" song (video below). It’s classic Black Sabbath! Nietzsche’s quote is at the heart of it.

Was Nietzsche a nihilist? Nihilism is the belief in nothing. Extreme pessimism and radical skepticism, which condemn existence, are often associated with nihilism. A true nihilist would believe in nothing, have no loyalties, and have no purpose other than, perhaps, an impulse to destroy (destorying might be a purpose). I’m skeptical that anyone alive is a true nihilist. If you were a true nihilist, you would have died by suicide the second you truly believed in nothing.

In my personal opinion, Nietzsche embodied a kind of optimistic nihilism—I don’t believe he was a hardcore nihilist. Your opinion may be different.

Nietzsche died from a stroke. They say he was insane (possibly from syphilis).

“Abiogenesis,” 7” x 5", November 30, 2024, acrylic on paper.