Through Each Other’s Eyes: An Afternoon About Photography, Storytelling, and Finding Your Own Voice

Yesterday I attended Through Each Other’s Eyes: Behind the Lens at Western Spirit: Scottsdale’s Museum of the West. A photography friend Don H. also attended and I also had a chance to sit down and talk to Kim G. I had a chance to revisit with Kerrick James and Richard Jackson. I went expecting an interesting photography seminar. I came away thinking about something much larger: what it actually means to become an artist with a camera.

The setting itself seemed appropriate. Before the program even began, I found myself photographing the Western Spirit Museum—the rust-colored metal architecture against an intensely blue Arizona sky, Western sculptures tucked into the landscape, patterns etched into the concrete, and long geometric shadows stretching across the walkways.

It was one of those places where architecture, sculpture, light, and landscape seem designed to make a photographer slow down and look.

Three Photographers, Three Very Different Paths

The seminar brought together photographers Scott Baxter, Joel Grimes, and Jeff Kida. What made the conversation particularly valuable was that they did not represent one prescribed way of being a photographer.

Their careers and approaches are different, yet several common ideas kept emerging.

One was the importance of reinvention.

A photography career—or an artistic life—isn’t necessarily a straight line. Styles change. Technology changes. Clients change. More importantly, photographers themselves change.

There can be a point when simply making technically good photographs is no longer enough. You begin asking different questions:

What am I trying to say?

Why am I photographing this?

What makes this image mine?

That distinction between photographer and artist stayed with me.

The Long Story Matters

Another idea that resonated with me was the value of committing to a subject over time.

Some photographs are discoveries. You encounter something wonderful, recognize the opportunity, and make the picture.

But a body of work is different.

You return.

You research.

You photograph again.

You begin noticing things you didn’t see the first time.

Eventually, the individual photographs stop being isolated images and begin speaking to one another. Together they become a story.

That idea feels especially relevant to the work I am creating now. I have been thinking increasingly in terms of series rather than individual photographs—images connected by place, memory, history, or experience.

A single photograph can be beautiful.

A collection can say something.

The Discipline Behind the Photograph

There was also an important reminder that photography isn’t only about inspiration.

Long-term documentary work requires patience and discipline. Editorial photography requires the ability to understand a place and determine which details actually communicate its character. Fine-art photography requires making decisions that go beyond simply recording what was in front of the camera.

All of those approaches require intention.

That may have been one of my biggest takeaways from the afternoon:

Don’t just photograph what something looks like. Decide what you want the viewer to understand or feel about it.

That changes everything.

And Then There Was the Light

Walking around Western Spirit reinforced the lesson. 

I photographed the obvious subjects—the Western sculptures and the architecture—but I was equally interested in things that might easily have been overlooked.

The relationship between weathered steel and desert vegetation.

And especially the shadows.

At one point, the structural columns cast enormous diagonal shadows across the walkway. Nothing dramatic was happening there. No grand Western landscape. No elaborate subject.

Just sunlight, architecture, and concrete.

Yet it may have been one of the most photographic scenes I encountered.

It was a good reminder that seeing is often more important than searching.

A Question I’m Taking Home

Photography seminars can easily become discussions about cameras, lenses, lighting equipment, software, and technique. Those things matter, of course.

But this conversation went somewhere more interesting.

It made me think about voice.

After years of taking photographs, what subjects do I repeatedly return to? What stories am I uniquely positioned to tell? Which images belong together? And when does a collection of photographs become something more—a coherent body of artwork?

Those questions are particularly meaningful to me right now as I continue exploring photography alongside painterly image-making and creating work for exhibitions.

I don’t think an artist necessarily wakes up one morning having “found” a style.

I think you recognize it gradually.

You make photographs.

You experiment.

You revisit old work.

You notice what keeps pulling you back.

And eventually, you realize there has been a thread running through the work all along.

Through Each Other’s Eyes

The title of the program turned out to be wonderfully appropriate.

We may stand in the same place, photograph the same landscape, or even point our cameras toward the same subject—but we don’t necessarily make the same photograph.

We bring our histories with us.

Our curiosity.

Our experiences.

Our memories.

Our sense of beauty.

And our own way of seeing.

That is probably what I appreciated most about spending an afternoon listening to three accomplished photographers talk about their work.

I didn’t leave wanting to photograph like any of them.

I left wanting to understand more clearly how I photograph like me.

Through Each Other's Eyes website

Seminar Price $75 and includes access to the museum. light breakfast and lunch.

Joel Grimes website

Scott Baxter website

Jeff Kida website

#Photography #ThroughEachOthersEyes #WesternSpirit #Scottsdale #ArizonaPhotography #PhotographyArt #VisualStorytelling #PhotographicVoice #BehindTheLens #PhotographyJourney

Sedona - Lunch at The Table at Junipine — A Taste of Tranquility and Flavor

Tucked away beneath a canopy of green, with flower boxes blooming and the sound of the creek just beyond the railings, we found ourselves at The Table at Junipine. The setting itself is a breath of calm—rustic wood beams strung with soft patio lights, cool mountain air, and just enough charm to make you forget about the rest of the world for a while.

We settled in on the shaded patio, surrounded by the hush of oak and pine, and turned our attention to the menu. Every dish sounded like a thoughtful creation, but I couldn’t resist the Slide Rock Sliders - a trio of mini burgers, artfully presented with a generous helping of double battered fries.

For my slider selection, I chose a culinary tour across flavor profiles:

– The Big Greek, with fig spread, goat cheese, bacon, and balsamic glaze—an elegant surprise of sweet and savory.

– The Apricot Club, blending Swiss cheese, bacon, apricot aioli, and frisée lettuce for a slightly tangy, slightly smoky delight.

– And the Spicy Vortex, where jalapeños, sriracha aioli, and house-made slaw danced together on a cloud of heat and crunch.

Each bite was balanced, unexpected, and genuinely exquisite. The buns were soft but held up perfectly. The patties were juicy and seasoned just right. But let’s talk about those fries—crisped golden with the lightest touch of herbs and seasoning, possibly the best I’ve had in Arizona. I’d come back for those fries alone.

There’s something about sitting in the cool shade, sipping coffee, and enjoying a meal prepared with this much care that makes you linger a little longer. We did. We watched the hummingbirds flit near the hanging baskets and let the afternoon unfold gently.

Whether you’re staying nearby or just passing through Oak Creek Canyon, The Table at Junipine is a must-stop. Come for the scenery, stay for the sliders—and don’t skip the fries.

Note: Sliders are mix-and-match, limited to two orders per party—but trust me, you’ll be tempted to order more.

Grand Canyon, AZ - The Kaibab Suspension Bridge

 

The Kaibab Suspension Bridge

Looking Down from the Rim

I stood at the South Rim. The sun was high. The sky was blue and empty except for clouds in the distance. The wind came up from the canyon slow and dry. You could hear your breath. And nothing else.

There was a marker there. Bronze and black. It spoke of the Kaibab Trail Suspension Bridge. Built in 1928. Mules crossed it. Hikers crossed it. Supplies went down and hope came back up. The bridge had no glory. It had grit.

Engineers carried the steel down the canyon piece by piece. They brought mules to do the hauling. Strong mules. Patient men. A team of Mohave laborers helped build it. It took courage and silence and the kind of work that burns the hands. They strung the cables over the river by hand. One hundred and sixty feet above the Colorado.

The bridge hangs there still. Black steel against red stone. They say you can hear it creak when the wind kicks.

I looked out from the edge. Tried to see it far below. Too much light. Too much canyon. You catch a glimpse, maybe. But only if you know where to look.

A sign caught my eye. White with bold black letters. No Drones Allowed. I smiled. The canyon doesn’t need buzzing things. It doesn’t need looking down from a screen. You stand on your feet. You see with your eyes. That’s how it’s done here.

They don’t give awards for bridges like that. But this one has them. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It earned it. It still stands.

I took a step back from the edge. The rock was warm. The river was far. The bridge was waiting, hidden in the folds of the gorge, doing its job. No fanfare. Just steel and silence.

Grand Canyon, AZ - Yavapai Geology Museum

 

At the Yavapai Geology Museum

On the Orange Route, Where the Rock Speaks

You take the shuttle. You get off when it slows and the driver nods. There’s a path. You follow it. It’s quiet. Pine trees creak. The wind smells of dust and sun.

The museum is not large, but it stands like it belongs. Stone and glass. Built to stay.

Inside, the air is cool. There are maps, raised and rugged, with shadows in the folds. You touch one. It feels like memory. You trace the Colorado River with your finger. You see where it cut. Where it kept cutting. It always cuts.

There are layers—painted and labeled—telling the age of things older than time. You learn the names: Vishnu Schist. Coconino Sandstone. Bright Angel Shale. They sound like poems but are heavier than prayer.

And then the windows.

The whole canyon opens like a secret kept too long. You look out and stop thinking. The rock rolls out in red and rose and ash. The far wall is clear. The space between is deep and alive.

People stand at the glass and say nothing. A child points, but does not ask. A man stares as if he’s trying to remember something he never knew.

You stay longer than you meant to. There are benches. You sit. The light moves. The shadows shift.

This is the place to learn what can’t be taught. The canyon speaks if you are quiet. And here, you are.