We had the weekend in Chicago – just the two of us, two whole days to make some good trouble.
My wife, Jaime, is starting to put herself out there as a business owner. She’s a music therapist, so many of her professional portraits feature a guitar of some sort.
With her new enterprise, she wanted some professional images without an instrument.
So we wandered around Chicago’s loop, walked inside some boutique hotel lobbies, and made some headshots before we got kicked out.
And it was fun. We felt like two teenagers who, at any moment, were going to get caught somewhere they shouldn’t have been.
There was one high-end luxury hotel in particular where I felt the lobby desk’s eyes were on us. But in each location, nothing happened. We got off scot-free.
The photos? They were just what Jaime was looking for – wardobe changes and all.
If there’s a lesson here, it’s that you should use your photography superpowers to help people, especially people you know and love.
Take them up on their creative idea. You might have a great time doing it.
All images shot on the Canon EOS M6 and a few EF-M lenses.
This time, we were in town for the weekend to see Brandi Carlile and, the next day, wander into downtown Chicago for some new headshots for my wife (more on those later).
Wandering the streets around The Loop, I couldn’t help but grab some pictures.
All images shot on the Canon EOS M6 and a few EF-M lenses.
You don’t need to be in a war zone for your images to have value. You don’t need to be documenting historical upheaval for your pictures to matter. The revolution happening in your living room, your kid learning to walk, your parent getting older, the slow accumulation of years on your own face, that’s history too. That’s the stuff that makes up a life.
Since then, we’ve been picking up the pieces – some figurative, some literal.
For instance, we adopted Grandma’s dog, Bruno. We had to take her cable box back and shut off her mobile phone.
We found Kodak Carousels with thousands of film slides in a closet, carefully labelled and organized by subject and year: Disney World, Kentucky horse shows, Alaska, and family dinners. Like my own film archiving project, this one will keep me busy, getting all those positive film slides scanned.
Walking around the empty house, we remember what it was like at Christmas, full of family and noise. There are the awesome Star Wars curtains, the hundreds of puzzles, and the dinnerware that hasn’t changed in decades.
Nothing has really changed. And yet everything has.
We used to sit by Grandma at church, up in the balcony, and go to lunch afterwards – usually Bob Evans or Olive Garden.
She was a constant in our lives, our kids’ lives. Every birthday, Mother’s Day, or ice cream social.
There were summer Sundays on Lake Michigan, at our usual spot in the South Haven state park.
Now: an empty house, tax records going back to the 1960s, and all this stuff.
She was an incredible woman – strong and proud. After 90-plus years, there’s a lot of legacy and love to sort through now, too.
Emotion is the heart of candid photography. Real emotion cannot be forced. It appears naturally when people feel comfortable.
Candid photos often show subtle feelings. A relaxed posture, a thoughtful pause, or spontaneous laughter adds depth to the image. These small details help viewers feel connected.
Because the moments are real, the emotion feels familiar. The viewer recognizes themselves in the image. That connection makes candid photography memorable.
Looking through my photo archives recently, I stumbled on photos from a memorable winter trip with my now-wife to South Haven, Michigan. The result of that trip was one of my favorite photos.
I know: we Michiganders are wacky. In college, I took a spring break trip north, to Toronto, instead of south, as most sane people do.
And here we were, a fairly young couple during a freezing cold February, taking a weekend holiday to the icy Lake Michigan shore. We spent a day walking around South Haven, talking to some locals, and wandering over to the lighthouse to catch an amazing winter sunset.
It was there, on the walkway out to the lighthouse, that I caught this couple holding hands while they shuffled along the path:
It might be one of my most enduring pictures: it won first prize in my local county fair photo competition, it remains one of my most-viewed photos on Flickr, etc. This photo is one of my favorites, too (though it’s hard to go wrong in South Haven, especially in the summer).
Consider this a companion piece to my how-to on scanning old photos – here’s how I make my annual photo album for the family, our vacations, and our kids.
For people of a certain age (elder Millennial here), we grew up on the edge of film photography and digital photography. We witnessed the transition unfold firsthand. Our childhoods were captured on film, while our 20s and 30s were mobile and digital.
It’s kind of like when our grandparents’ celebrities – Bob Hope, for example – were still alive when we were kids, but maybe a little past their prime. We knew of them, understood their importance, but weren’t emotional when they passed.
We saw it all come and go, and we had to make the transition from one phase to another. Print photos were still a big thing until about 20 years ago. And now, with film photography making a comeback, it’s like we (and the folks a little older and younger than us) are rediscovering physical photos.
Take family photo albums. They’re like heirlooms. Chances are, people around my age were blessed with thick, ring-bound family albums. If we’re lucky, we still have them.
I had a treasured set of photo albums that I recovered after my mother passed away. But, my brain asks, what if something happens to those albums? What if they get wet? Or lost?
That’s why, a few years back, I made it a project to scan all my childhood photos for safekeeping. If something ever happened to the actual physical photos, I made sure to have a backup.
And now, I’m backing up that backup to Flickr – in a semi-private album. I pay for a Flickr Pro membership, which gives me unlimited uploads. If my backup drives were trashed, I have an off-site system to keep those photos safe.
How do I create the scanned backup?
I take all of my photos and scan them – putting several pictures on the scanning bed, to help with efficiency (see above)
Next, I crop each individual photo out of the scan and save it, labelling it by the year and subject name
With the photos scanned and saved, I keep all of these scans safe and sound via the two backups above: an external hard drive, and an off-site backup
There are lots of ways to do this. My method takes some time and patience, but I have control over the whole process, front to back.
So while I still live in both worlds – print and digital – I found a process that uses both types of media to keep my family photos secure.
It’s the ultimate anti-AI photography platform: analog, messy, imperfect. As digital photography gets better and better, some of us want to slow down and embrace the physical.
My own film journey is…nothing noteworthy. I have a few film cameras, a bag full of various films in my freezer, and every once in a while, I’ll pick up my Canon AE-1 or Olympus Trip and snap a photo around the house, when the light is just right.
I recently sent off a few roles to The Darkroom to get developed. When they came back, the photos were…all right. A little messy and imperfect. The funny thing was, it was like traveling back in time.
“When did I take that?” I ask myself. I even forget which film it was.
This month, I’m diving into my film archive and sharing some select pictures on Instagram and Flickr.
For me, film photography is the ultimate experiment. The top of the I-don’t-care mountain. Whatever comes, comes.
Enough time passes between developed rolls that the years don’t matter. The subject doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
Just the image, the light, and the moment captured.
What if, from time to time, we allow our intuition to lead, both in creating and experiencing art, without immediately asking to justify itself? If we are not afraid to enter unknown, unexplainable spheres in creating and receiving it, and if we hold off trying to understand the process and technique just a little longer to just focus on its effect on us? Could we, perhaps, also come to an understanding of it? Could we still know a painting even if we don’t know its intention?
In a world where explanation, verification, and optimization are increasingly necessary, perhaps art can be the space where we can develop and learn to trust our own intuition.
I don’t do new year resolutions, but something I’m trying to commit to in 2026: experimenting more. Trying new things out.
If 2024 and 2025 were a return to form, 2026 can be a zig zag. Not that I’m bored with my process or style, but I also want to stretch a bit. Get uncomfortable. Maybe try some more film photography.
Art has always been central to Jessica Leeland’s life.
“I’ve always done it,” she says. “My brother was an artist. My parents were artists.”
Music, theater, and psychology – together with the visual arts – shaped her early creative world, giving her what she calls “the arts in the whole realm of my life.”
That foundation eventually led Jessica to discover art therapy in college, something she “had no idea” existed until professors recognized her ability to connect with others and encouraged her to explore it.
Jessica soon realized that art could be used not just for expression, but to help people.
“That was my favorite thing, finding out that you could actually help people by utilizing it,” she says.
Choosing Education at a Critical Moment
Jessica initially planned to pursue clinical art therapy, but a sudden opportunity changed everything.
When a music teacher unexpectedly left a local elementary school, she was faced with a choice: continue the art therapy path, or help kids in a different, but related, way.
“I thought, ‘If I don’t jump now, I’ll never do it,’” she recalls.
Rather than waiting years to complete art therapy’s clinical requirements, Jessica chose to step into teaching and advocate for arts education where she felt it was missing.
“Kids need the tools now, in elementary,” she says.
In education, Jessica could give students access to creative tools early, before those opportunities disappear.
“You can still play sports and be an artist. You can still go be a doctor and be an artist. You just have to balance the schedule.”
Teaching as Creative Advocacy
In the classroom, Jessica merges artistic practice with therapeutic principles. She emphasizes pausing, reflecting, and making choices.
“It’s okay to pause,” she tells students. “And then watching them and hearing them speak the words, ‘no means no. Those are my boundaries.’ Those are healthy. This is OK.”
Jessica remembers one moment that confirmed she was exactly where she needed to be.
“A child told me they had never held a paintbrush before,” she says. “That was their first time painting. When that hit me, I knew I was meant to be here.”
Over time, she has seen the impact. Students repeat her language back to parents. Former 4H participants return and tell her, “You told me last year to do this.” For Leeland, those moments are everything.
“That’s game over for me,” she says. “That’s it.”
Her Own Studio Practice
Despite the demands of teaching and family life – she’s married with two kids – Jessica remains committed to her own art.
“If I don’t create for myself in a certain amount of time, I become bitter,” she says. “It’s me flushing my brain out.”
Her Art 634 studio is essential – a place where her brain knows it is time to create.
Jessica’s work spans life drawing, paint pouring, acrylic painting, and ongoing experimentation.
“I’m very much a try it out, test it kind of person,” she explains.
Much of her work is human-centered, shaped by anatomy, psychology, and emotional experience.
“It just needs to come out of me,” she says.
While her art began as something “for nobody but myself,” sharing it has become part of the process. Teaching, creating, and continuing to evolve are inseparable for Leeland.
“This is exactly what I was looking for,” she says.
Think of Baixa as a easily-navigable shopping district. The busy neighborhood follows a clean grid layout, making it feel open, orderly, and walkable.
There were a few hills, but none of the steep ones we had just toured around in the Alfama district.
And in the middle of the day, the bright sun lit up the place, casting perfect shadows on the buildings and pedestrians as we walked around.
All of this – the buildings, the sunlight, and people wandering around – made for perfect street photography conditions. It fit my style, and I took full advantage.
After taking some of these photos, I caught my breath. I was in picture heaven.
This lady, watching me take photos on the busy walkway, came up to me and started singing. Lovely!
We made our way down to the Rua Augusta to the Arco da Rua Augusta, in view of the Tagus River, then back up to the Hotel do Chiado, where we grabbed lunch at their rooftop bar.
It was here that I grabbed what might be my favorite photo series from the whole trip.
Across from our table was this very animated Frenchman talking business with a local. The way the shadows and light fell across him made for a beautiful scene – so much so that I couldn’t stop making photos. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice.
That night, we finished up our trip with a sailboat ride on the Tagus River.
Shot on the Canon EOS M6 and (mostly) the EF-M 32mm f/1.4.
Our Lisbon, Portugal trip came in several stages, so let’s start with the first part: our tuk tuk tour.
Our tour guide, João, picked us up near our Sintra guide’s meeting spot: the Hard Rock Cafe, on Avenida Da Liberdade (Liberty Avenue), early in the morning. From there, we took off in his tuk tuk to see some of the cathedrals and grand vistas around Lisbon.
This lower, flatter part of the city contrasts sharply with where a tuk tuk can take you next. Almost immediately, you begin climbing into Lisbon’s historic hills, where streets narrow and the buildings get older.
Sé Cathedral (Lisbon Cathedral)
Lisbon Cathedral stands as the city’s oldest major monument. While the current Romanesque structure dates to the 12th century, its origins go back much further.
It’s old, and dense: heavy stone walls, thick towers, with minimal ornamentation.
Contrast with that age: modern tuk tuks everywhere, trying to pick up tourists.
Monastery of São Vicente de Fora (Saint Vincent Monastery)
Perched above Alfama, São Vicente de Fora is one of Lisbon’s most important religious and historical complexes. Built in the 17th century, the monastery is dedicated to Saint Vincent, Lisbon’s patron saint, whose relics were brought to the city in the 12th century.
Up here, you could understand how Lisbon’s high ground was historically reserved for institutions of power, faith, and defense.
Photographically, this was one of my favorite spots on the tour. Bright white walls, deep shadows inside, and open courtyards gave me lots of room (and light) to explore.
From the Cathedral, we hit our first viewpoint area: Portas do Sol, with its view over Alfama, Lisbon’s oldest neighborhood (above). This viewpoint showcases Lisbon’s medieval layout: narrow streets, tiled facades, and terracotta roofs everywhere you look.
Plus, we had a great view of the Tagus River.
It was dizzying, traveling up those narrow streets. You lose your sense of direction pretty quickly.
And then, the city opens out in front of you…
Senhora do Monte Viewpoint and Chapel
The Miradouro da Senhora do Monte is one of Lisbon’s highest viewpoints. From up here, the city opens up in every direction, and João pointed out the old city and where it meets the newer parts of Lisbon (he was, admittedly, not a fan of the newer parts).
Behind us, a small chapel dedicated to Our Lady of the Mount (Senhora do Monte) sits quietly at the edge of the viewpoint.
We weren’t the only tourists looking out from this vantage point, but the space was open and clear enough to get a good view of the city under a bright morning sun.
Finishing up, we hit the hills back down to where we started, where João explained some of the history behind his wonderful city.
We asked João where we could get the best pastel de nata in town, and he steered us to a little cafe not far from our original meeting point.
Together with a cup of coffee, the pastel didn’t disappoint.
Shot on the Canon EOS M6 and a mix of EF-M lenses.
This Christmas, we were sitting with some family and going through some of my annual photo books.
“I tend to take my camera everywhere,” I told my mother-in-law as she relived the past few years through pictures. Some of those photo albums featured her, either at birthday parties or on a family trip to Wisconsin.
Looking through those photo books, all those ordinary moments feel anything but ordinary when you see them again.
As we turned the pages, I realized how much of what I remember is tied to the light of a place.
Light ends up highlighting how a scene, location, or event felt. Not just how it looked, but how I remember it: the warmth on a Lake Michigan beach. The quiet of a winter afternoon. The way a place said “home.”
In the winter, I always watch for the familiar light to return to the south side of the house. When it’s cold out, the light makes its merry way across the walls and floors again. When it shows up, I try to notice and capture it.
Looking back at old photos, I realize how much I miss the big picture window in our previous home’s living room (above). We made so many memories there. Morning light spilling in. Late afternoon shadows. Kids on the floor or the couch.
Quiet moments that felt small then, but feel enormous now.
Over the years, I knew that old house’s light and followed it according to the seasons.
In this house, the light is different. It arrives at different times, from different angles, and I’ve learned to take advantage of it where and when I can.
That’s part of why it helps to take a camera everywhere, or keep one on me at all times. I try to notice the light when it shows up and grab it while it’s there.
Then, when we look back, we’re not just seeing a photo; we are reliving how that light made the moment feel.
Heading out from our home base of Caparica, we took a day to visit Sintra, Portugal, along the Atlantic coast and a short drive from Lisbon.
We arranged an Airbnb tour and travelled with a mother/daughter pair from Mexico. As the day started, rain clouds moved in, misting over the landscape as we came into Sintra.
The first stop was the Pena Palace, one of the seven wonders of Portugal. Seeing it was like visiting a real-life Disney castle, but with colors and personality that made it a unique experience.
We climbed a short way up the mountain, through a grand entry archway, and stepped up to the bi-colored palace with tons of other visitors.
From up here, we had a great view of the surrounding area – and we could even spot Lisbon off to the East.
Next, we took a short drive to the Quinta da Regaleira, a 19th-century estate sprawling with chapels, statues, grottoes, and an initiation well that spiraled down into a cave system beneath the grounds.
We could have spent an entire day here, exploring the property. In between the rain, we climbed up the estate hillside and climbed down the well – over and under and through everything.
I thought back to what it must’ve been like to live here, especially as a child, and be able to wander around the estate day after day.
From the Quinta da Regaleira, we headed to the seaside and Cabo de Roca, the westernmost point in continental Europe.
After grabbing lunch, we stopped at the cliffside, 100 meters above the Atlantic Ocean, to see the lighthouse and marker noting the end of the Eurasian landmass. To the East were rolling hills and natural meadows. To the west? A long dive into the ocean.
With a good tour guide (shout-out to our own Giovana!), these kinds of tours are a great way to efficiently explore parts of a new country.
And even with the rain and inconsistent lighting, the Canon EOS M6 and stock zoom lens were all I needed to capture the day.
The mezzanine at work is our storage space. A large section of the mezzanine includes all of the Christmas decorations that appear this time of year.
I use the mezzanine to take a walk during my lunch hour. Last spring, I saw these holiday figures and packages wrapped in plastic while walking. It was such a striking scene that I had to grab my camera to grab some behind-the-scenes photos.
Happy holidays, everyone. See you in the new year.
First things first on our Portugal trip: Costa da Caparica, the little beach town we stayed in south of Lisbon.
For our 10-year wedding anniversary, we rented an Airbnb condo where, when you stepped outside the building, you were right on the beach. And believe me: coming from the chilly Midwest, we appreciated having easy access to the warm oceanside.
All of it – the seaside restaurants, the surfers, the golden light at sunset – reminded me of California. The weather was great too, full of sunshine and an ocean breeze.
The bright sun and saltwater haze lent a summer vibe to these photos that I appreciated, especially when visiting in the middle of October.
We loved the constant waves, too, and even kept our patio door open at night. Think of it as an ocean-sized sound machine.
I grabbed my Canon EOS M6 and took advantage of the sunshine and summer vibes to capture some photos along the beach walkway.
Whether we were eating lunch at a seaside restaurant or walking through a Portuguese flea market, it was the perfect place to capture the local people and places.
And the light? To die for, especially approaching golden hour.
Just like California, ocean sunsets hit differently.
Caparica was a great launching point into the wider Lisbon area. We were 30-50 minutes (depending on traffic) to Lisbon, and from there we wandered up and down the coast for the few days we were in Portugal.
All photos shot with the Canon EOS M6 and a select few EF-M lenses.
For Gary Willcock, art is something built from the inside out.
His story begins with buildings.
“I studied architecture at the University of Michigan,” he says. “I worked for a company in Pontiac called Custom Home Design, for Architonics here in Jackson, and I used to moonlight doing drawings at night. I got into a lot of places, met a lot of people, did some fun things.”
Gary grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. As he moved around the state, he was raised in houses without plumbing or a refrigerator, where every wall and nail carried meaning.
“All those structures had a special place in my life,” he says. “After World War II, there was a huge building boom. Every vacant lot disappeared, and I got involved in it somehow. When my dad decided to build a house, I was part of that. I didn’t know anything about architecture, but I liked designing houses. They told me, ‘That’s an architect.’ So off I went.”
Even after he left formal architecture for design and engineering work, the mindset stayed.
“Wherever I’ve lived, I play with the building,” Gary says. “If I see an empty building, I start massaging it in my mind.”
Gary’s Living Sculpture
Gary and his wife Christie live on seven wooded acres south of Jackson, a place they call Wind Mountain.
“When I moved in here, this part of the house was just a covered slab,” he says. “I enclosed it, added a reverse gable, and kept going. Over the years, I’ve changed almost everything.”
He built patios, redesigned the kitchen, and drew every trim detail himself.
“This is all my design: the casing, the woodwork. I had it custom-made by the man who built my cupboards,” he says.
Christie calls their home “a living sculpture.” Gary agrees.
“At some point, I wanted my life to be a piece of art,” he says. “To live in this structure where I’ve created all this stuff. I’m walking through my own big sculpture, and it’s functional.”
Sculptures of Precision and Play
Gary’s sculptures merge precision and imagination.
“I’m rigid in some ways,” he laughs. “Right angles all the way. That’s from my mother: you didn’t color outside the lines.”
His background in product and machine design shows in the materials he chooses: anodized aluminum, steel, acrylic, and found parts.
“I think of machines as robots,” he says. “Even a car is a robot. A robotic horse.”
His fascination with robots goes back to childhood.
“For some reason, I never got rid of a toy robot I bought in about 1948,” Gary says. “I bought it at Montgomery Ward in Royal Oak. It cost a dollar.”
Years later, his oldest son found a reproduction and bought it for him, sparking a new collection.
“Then somebody else gave me one, and another, and pretty soon it became a thing,” he laughs. Now, robots, along with dogs, fill his shelves.
“They all have personalities,” he says. “Some of my sculptures do too.”
Light is another essential part of his work.
“I enjoy how it plays off different surfaces, how it bounces around through the holes,” he says. “Some pieces have lenses. You look in one end and out the other, like a telescope.”
His sculptures often carry names that hint at humor and personality: Light Scope, Nest, Red Foreman, SEA AWL.
“I’m corny,” he admits. “But I like it when people lean in to look. Art should make you curious.”
Champion of Local Art
Walk through Gary and Christie’s house, and every wall holds local art.
“If you want a creative community, you support it,” he says. “You show up to openings, you buy work when you can, you encourage people.”
“We buy it because we like it, not because we have to,” Christie adds. “The people who made this work are our friends.”
Gary smiles at that. “Art is connection. You don’t create in isolation.”
Making Meaning through art
After raising six children and working full-time, Gary returned to art in retirement.
“I had to work, so all this was on the back burner,” he says. “One day I told myself, ‘If you’re ever going to do something, you better get off your seat and do it now.’ ”
Now an active member of several local art communities and collectives, Gary continues to draw, design, and build.
“I think art gives meaning to life,” he says. “It reminds us to look closer, to pay attention, to see more.”
