One hot day in the middle of a summer two decades ago I received my art degree in the mail. When it arrived I was either away at work, a bar job I got while in college, or was asleep, because I was in my twenties and worked at a bar. I didn't go to my graduation.

A few weeks prior I'd had my final critique with my photography professor and mentor. The meeting was supposed to be a review of the work I'd done during the independent study course I'd taken that year. What followed was a three hour meeting in which we didn't really talk about the art I'd made. Instead Masumi asked me what I was planning for my future and repeatedly told me "Go to grad school. Don't do anything else. Don't stop along the way. You need to go to grad school."

I had another important conversation that week. I told my boss that I loved working for him, loved my job, but even with all the hours I was working and all the cutting back I'd done I couldn't afford to pay my rent. I told him I wanted to keep working for him if he could help me figure out a way to stay. He made me a bartender.

So I didn't go to grad school. I became a bartender. I don't remember giving up on my dreams. I just took one little step away from them, one day at a time, each necessary.

At some point I convinced myself that this was what being a grown up was like. Art was something I used to do. It wasn't a career. Careers are serious, hard, and require sacrifice. So I sacrificed.

It took me ten years to reach my limit. Working at a restaurant when I was in my twenties felt exciting and adult. Working the same job in my thirties, when I wanted to own a house and start a family, felt different. I was tired of missing New Years, Mother's Day, Saturday nights, Sunday mornings. I'd had my head down for so long, taking one necessary step at a time, that when I finally looked up I realized I didn't know where I was going.

So I quit.

I started Wright & Rede. A place where I could be creative, but sell things. Serious things that people could use. Adult things. Not art. Practical things.

In doing so I had to learn social media. How to promote and market myself. I started documenting my work. Business stuff. Not art. I was selling a product.

But sometimes, when I had my camera out, the light would hit just right or I'd be driving my son home from preschool and we'd stop at a park. I'd bring my camera with me just in case there were some pictures I could take to help define my brand. Definitely not for making art.

Then another decade passed and now I'm making art. To be clear, I wasn't making art. I stopped, but now I was making art again. Which I wasn't doing before. Definitely.

And then.

Last night I was looking through all of those pictures. The ones I took because the light was nice. The ones I shot when I had my camera out. The ones to show my kids what I used to use when I made art.

There, hidden in with all the pictures I'd taken telling my narrative of Wright & Rede, was a second narrative. A story about a parent. Someone who stopped to watch the sunrise. Celebrated the bitter sweet moments of watching his children grow up. Knowing that these were moments we'd never be able to return to. Memories we were living in. Pictures where the light was just right, the composition was perfect, and it all came together with how it made me feel. When combined it made something more than the sum of its parts. Art.

I am an artist. I always have been.

Looking back now I can see an unbroken chain of pictures. Taken when my guard was down. When I thought they didn't matter. Just because. Capturing this fleeting feeling I have. To savor life, all the little quiet moments, because they are always slipping away and I can never have them back.

It has taken me twenty years to understand what Masumi was trying to tell me. Don't stop. Take it seriously. Take the next step, but in the right direction.

A Second Narrative