Songs in the Key of Jay: A Musical Story That Continues

 Songs in the Key of Jay: A Musical Story That Continues

An upcoming album release with Gary Beckert, a collection of unfinished songs, and the creative connections that give music a life beyond its beginnings.



There are concerts we attend simply because we enjoy the music. And then there are performances that offer something more—a story about the people who created the music and the circumstances that brought it into existence.

This Thursday, October 22, I’m looking forward to attending Gary Beckert’s Arizona album release celebration at The Chill Room in Tempe. The album, Songs in the Key of Jay, is credited to Spunky & Tadpole, and its story has already captured my curiosity.

According to the event announcement, the album features 15 songs started by Spunky Jay Reilly and completed by Gary Beckert, known as Tadpole. It is described as their first and only album.

That raises some fascinating questions. What happens when one musician takes another musician’s unfinished ideas and helps bring them to completion? How much of the original artist remains in the finished composition? And how does the second musician balance preserving the original vision with contributing something personal?

As a visual artist, I find this especially intriguing. We often think of artwork as the creation of a single individual, yet collaboration can produce something neither artist would have created independently.



Gary is also a builder of acoustic guitars, which adds another layer to my curiosity about his creative process. Making an instrument and making music both involve craftsmanship, patience, experimentation, and an understanding of how individual components contribute to the finished work.

The album has already been celebrated on Long Island. Now Gary is bringing the release to the Arizona music community, with an evening featuring several opening performers before his appearance.

I’m looking forward to hearing the songs, learning more about the collaboration, and discovering the stories behind this unusual musical project.

After Thursday’s performance, I’ll return to this article with my impressions of the music, the atmosphere, and the experience of watching Gary introduce these songs to an Arizona audience.

For now, one question stays with me: When an artist completes another artist’s unfinished work, is the result a continuation of the original vision, a new collaboration, or perhaps a little of both?


When the Music Meets the Dinner Table: An Evening at Pho Cao

Continuing My Exploration of Live Music Venues

At Pho Cao, the music arrived with the dinner: a small stage, crowded tables, clinking glasses, and musicians performing only a few steps away. The setting made one question impossible to ignore: How much does a venue shape the way we listen?

My visits to Arizona BBQ Shack and the Tempe Center for the Arts lobby had already shown me that live music changes with its surroundings. Some venues are designed around the performance, with carefully planned acoustics, lighting, and seating. Others, like Pho Cao, weave music into an active restaurant, where listening competes with conversation, service, and the rhythms of an ordinary evening.

Tonight, I added Pho Cao to that comparison—and found that where you sit may matter almost as much as what is being played.

A Table Ten Feet From the Stage



I went with Kim, and Gary joined us, along with someone new we met that evening. Other locals added to the neighborhood atmosphere.

We sat directly in front of the stage, perhaps ten feet from the musicians. In a traditional concert hall, that might be one of the most desirable seats in the house. But in a restaurant, being that close creates a different experience.

We were surrounded by dinner plates, drinking glasses, conversations, and servers moving between tables. The musicians performed just a few steps away while the restaurant continued operating around us. There was no separation between dining and listening; both happened simultaneously.

That is the charm—and the challenge—of a venue like Pho Cao.

The Performers: Emma and James, and the Wild Banshees

Emma and James performed first, hosted by the Wild Banshees.

The stage was small and intimate, with the musicians positioned close together under colorful lighting. From our table, we could watch their expressions, movements, and interactions—details that often disappear in larger venues.

I could see the physical effort of playing, the communication between musicians, and the subtle gestures that held the performance together. The proximity created an almost personal connection.

But it did not guarantee the best listening experience.

The Sound Problem: Ten Feet Can Make a Difference

From our position near the stage, the drums were sometimes too loud relative to the vocals, making it difficult to appreciate the balance of the performance.

People seated farther back experienced almost the opposite problem: they could not hear the voices clearly.

That contrast fascinated me. We were listening to the same musicians in the same room, yet experiencing very different versions of the performance. It made me think about the difference between hearing music and hearing a balanced musical performance.

A drum kit produces considerable acoustic energy on its own, while voices in a restaurant depend heavily on amplification and speaker placement. A mix that seems appropriate in one location may sound entirely different twenty or thirty feet away.

Unlike a purpose-built concert hall, a restaurant may not distribute sound evenly throughout the room. Where you sit becomes part of what you hear.

Turning the Camera Around: Two Perspectives of the Same Room

I took photographs to document this difference.

One shows our table and the stage beyond it, with plates, glasses, and remnants of dinner filling the foreground. It captures the intimacy of the performance.



Another looks toward the back of the restaurant, revealing a long, narrow dining area with booths, hanging lights, and customers seated at varying distances from the musicians.

That view helped me understand why the sound varied so dramatically. The music had to travel through booths, people, conversations, and restaurant activity. Those seated farther back were attending the same event, but not necessarily experiencing the same performance we were.

This raises an interesting question: When a restaurant offers live music, is the goal to create an audience or to provide an atmosphere?

Those are very different objectives.

Dinner and a Show: The Restaurant Experience

Pho Cao is also a restaurant, so food is part of the evening. The food was good, but the service was slow.

In a concert hall, the performance is the primary reason for attending. In a restaurant featuring live music, the evening combines dining, socializing, and listening. Slow service can be frustrating, though the pace may feel less urgent when you are already planning to spend the evening there.

Still, food and service contribute to the overall experience. The musicians may be excellent, but the quality of the evening depends on more than the performance alone.

Comparing Three Very Different Venues

My experiences at Arizona BBQ Shack, the Tempe Center for the Arts lobby, and Pho Cao are giving me a broader understanding of what makes a successful live music venue.

At a small restaurant or bar, the audience may be close enough to feel personally connected to the musicians, while the room’s layout, noise, and competing activities affect how the music is heard. At a performing arts center, even a lobby may offer more deliberate planning for audiences.

Pho Cao adds another variation. The stage is a focal point for those seated nearby, but the restaurant extends well beyond that listening area, making location especially important.

I am beginning to think there are at least three ways to experience live music:

  • Music as the main event: You arrive specifically to listen, and your attention remains focused on the performers.
  • Music as part of a social evening: You enjoy the performance while sharing dinner and conversation with friends.
  • Music as atmosphere: The musicians contribute to the character of the space, even when patrons are not actively listening.

None of these approaches is inherently wrong, but each creates different expectations for the performers, venue, and audience.

The Musician’s Perspective

I find myself wondering how these environments feel to the musicians.

What is it like to perform for an audience that can hear every note near the stage while people farther back cannot clearly distinguish the vocals? Does the musician direct the performance toward those closest to the stage? Do conversations and restaurant activity become distractions, or are they simply part of the environment?

These questions interest me because performing music involves more than technical ability; it also requires connecting with an audience. A venue can support that connection or make it more difficult.

What Makes a Good Music Venue?

After these experiences, I am less inclined to judge a venue by its size, appearance, or reputation. Instead, I am looking at the relationship between the musicians, audience, and physical space.

At Pho Cao, I enjoyed being close to the stage and spending the evening with Kim, Gary, our new acquaintance, and other locals. The food was good, and the atmosphere was casual and welcoming. But the uneven sound balance and slow service were also part of the experience.

The evening reinforced something I have been thinking about throughout this series: A good musical performance and a good live music experience are not necessarily the same thing.

The musicians provide the performance, but the venue determines how we experience it. Sometimes, moving just a few tables away can change everything.

Final Thoughts: Where You Sit Matters

My biggest takeaway from Pho Cao is how much perspective matters.

From ten feet away, the stage felt immediate and personal. Looking toward the back of the restaurant, I saw an entirely different listening environment. The photographs capture both perspectives, but they cannot fully document how differently the music sounded from each place in the room.

As I continue visiting venues, I want to pay closer attention not only to the performers but also to the architecture, acoustics, audience behavior, and overall experience.

Live music is never just about what happens onstage. It is also about everything happening around it.

And at Pho Cao, that was especially apparent.


Día de los Muertos: A Celebration of Life, Love, and Remembrance


 I adopted this as a personal holiday ever since I saw the movie “Coco”.

October 31 – November 2

Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is one of Mexico’s most meaningful cultural traditions. Rather than mourning death as an ending, the holiday celebrates the enduring connection between the living and those who have passed away.

Its central message is beautiful: Love does not end with death, and those we remember remain part of our lives.

The celebration combines Indigenous Mexican traditions of honoring ancestors with Catholic observances of All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day.

The three days of remembrance

October 31 – The Beginning of the Celebration

Families prepare their homes, decorate altars, and welcome the season of remembrance. In some regional traditions, the spirits of children are believed to begin returning during the night.

November 1 – Día de los Angelitos

The Day of the Little Angels honors children who have died. Families may place toys, sweets, photographs, and favorite foods on altars to welcome their spirits. November 1 also coincides with All Saints’ Day.

November 2 – Día de los Muertos

The principal day of remembrance for deceased adults, coinciding with All Souls’ Day. Families gather at cemeteries and homes, sharing stories, music, food, and memories of loved ones.

The symbolism behind the celebration

Every detail has meaning, from the flowers and candles to the elaborate costumes.

Marigolds (Cempasúchil)

Their vivid orange color and fragrance are traditionally believed to guide spirits home.

Sugar Skulls (Calaveras)

Colorful representations of mortality that celebrate individuality and remind us that death is part of life.

Papel Picado

Intricate paper banners symbolize the fragility of life and are often associated with the element of air.

Candles and Photographs

Candles illuminate the way, while photographs honor specific people and preserve their place in family memory.

Why people dress as skeletons

The beautifully painted faces in your couple’s illustration reflect the tradition of La Catrina, the elegantly dressed skeleton popularized by Mexican artist José Guadalupe Posada and later depicted by Diego Rivera.

Skeleton imagery carries a philosophical message: regardless of wealth, status, or appearance, death is the great equalizer.

Yet the imagery is not intended to be frightening. Elaborate clothing, flowers, music, and painted faces transform a potentially somber subject into a celebration of humanity.

The significance of my couple’s portrait

My original photograph captures a couple dressed elegantly for a special occasion. This is my mother and father photographed at my wedding in 1984. Transforming them into Día de los Muertos figures creates another layer of meaning.

Their formal clothing becomes festive ceremonial attire. The flowers represent affection and remembrance. The candles suggest the persistence of memory, while their closeness symbolizes a bond that extends beyond the passage of time.

Importantly, Día de los Muertos imagery is not reserved for people who have died. Living people also dress as Catrinas and Catrines to participate in the celebration and reflect on life’s impermanence.

The deeper philosophy is not that we should dwell on death, but that awareness of mortality should encourage us to celebrate life.

This is what makes the holiday so compelling artistically: it combines beauty, mortality, memory, cultural heritage, and love into a single visual language.

And perhaps its most moving lesson is that a person’s life continues to have meaning through the stories we tell, the photographs we preserve, and the love we carry forward.




Beyond the Signature: Understanding the Numbers and Letters on Original Artwork

 


From artist’s proofs to limited editions, the small markings on a work of art tell a much larger story.

When we look at a piece of artwork, our attention naturally goes to the image itself. We study the composition, color, technique, and emotional impact. We may notice the artist’s signature, usually placed discreetly near the bottom.

But sometimes there are other markings beside that signature: A/P, 1/25, T/P, P/P, or H.C.

What do they mean? Why do some works have numbers while others have letters? And does an artist’s proof have more value than a numbered print?

As a photographer and digital artist, I find these questions particularly interesting. My creative process may begin with a photograph, continue through numerous transformations in Photoshop, and eventually result in a finished piece suitable for exhibition.

Along that journey, the image can exist in several forms. Some are experiments. Others are working versions. Eventually, one becomes the image I consider complete.

But when does an experiment become an original? When does a print become part of an edition? And how should an artist identify the difference?

The answers involve a fascinating combination of artistic tradition, printmaking history, and the modern realities of digital art.


1. The Journey from Concept to Completed Artwork

Before an artwork reaches a gallery wall, it may pass through numerous stages.

Traditional artists often begin with sketches or studies. Printmakers may create multiple proofs while refining an image. Photographers produce test prints to evaluate tonal range, color balance, contrast, and paper selection.

These developmental stages sometimes carry specific designations.

Marking

Classification

Purpose

SK

Sketch

Preliminary concept or composition

ST

Study

Exploration of technique, color, or subject

T/P or TP

Trial Proof

Experimental print used to evaluate a result

S/P or SP

State Proof

Print documenting a stage of development

B.A.T.

Bon à Tirer

Approved reference for final printing

Sketch and study are descriptive terms rather than universally standardized edition markings. Trial proofs and state proofs, however, have established traditions in printmaking.

The distinction is meaningful. A trial proof might test a different ink or printing technique. A state proof documents an actual change in the image or printing matrix. For digital photography, I can imagine a similar progression. I might photograph an architectural detail in France, then explore several artistic interpretations in Photoshop. One version might emphasize texture, another color, and another the relationship between light and shadow.

These are artistic experiments, even when the digital files are highly developed. If I print several versions to evaluate them, those physical prints could be identified as trial prints. They document decisions made along the way, rather than necessarily representing the final artwork.

2. B.A.T.: The Moment the Artist Says, “This Is It”

One of my favorite terms in traditional printmaking is Bon à Tirer, commonly abbreviated B.A.T.

The French expression means good to print.

Historically, it identifies the proof approved by the artist as the standard against which subsequent edition prints should be judged.

Think about the significance of that decision.

The artist has experimented, adjusted, evaluated, and finally declared that the image is ready.

No more changes to the color. No more adjustments to the contrast. No more experimentation with composition.

This is the approved version.

For a photographer, that moment might arrive after comparing several fine-art papers, making color corrections, and reviewing the image under appropriate lighting.

For a digital artist, it might follow dozens of Photoshop layers, masks, adjustments, and creative decisions.

The B.A.T. is not simply another print. It establishes the approved production reference.

There is something satisfying about giving that decision a formal designation.

It represents the transition from exploration to commitment.

3. Artist’s Proof: What Does A/P Really Mean?

Perhaps the most recognizable special designation is A/P, meaning Artist’s Proof.

Historically, artist’s proofs were impressions reserved for the artist outside the regular numbered edition.

In traditional printmaking, proofs could also provide opportunities to inspect the quality of printing. Modern artist’s proofs are generally expected to meet the same quality standard as the edition itself.

Suppose I produce a limited edition of 25 prints.

The regular edition would be numbered:

  • 1/25
  • 2/25
  • 3/25
  • Continuing through 25/25

I might also authorize three artist’s proofs, identified as A/P 1/3, A/P 2/3, and A/P 3/3.

That means there are 25 regular edition prints and three artist’s proofs, for a total of 28 authorized impressions in those two categories.

The artist’s proofs are not automatically better than the regular prints.

They are distinguished primarily by their designation and their position outside the regular edition.

Are Artist’s Proofs More Valuable?

Sometimes.

Collectors may place a premium on artist’s proofs because they are fewer in number, were retained by the artist, or have a particularly interesting provenance.

However, the letters A/P do not guarantee additional value.

The artist’s reputation, quality of the work, documentation, rarity, and market demand all influence what collectors are willing to pay.

I think this is an important distinction because it separates the artistic significance of a piece from the marketing language sometimes associated with limited editions.

An artist’s proof should be identified accurately, not simply presented as something superior.

4. Understanding Limited-Edition Numbering

The familiar fraction on a print is one of the simplest ways to communicate its place within an edition.

For example:

7/25

The first number identifies the individual print. The second identifies the total number authorized in that regular edition.

In this example, the artwork is print number seven in an edition of 25.

The numbering does not necessarily tell us which print physically came off the printer seventh.

Nor does it mean that print number one is inherently better than print number 25.

In modern digital printing, properly produced prints from the same edition should meet the same approved quality standard.

This raises an interesting question for contemporary photography.

If an image can be reproduced almost perfectly using a digital file and a high-quality printer, what makes a limited edition genuinely limited?

The answer is not necessarily the technology.

It is the artist’s commitment to the declared edition size.

If I announce an edition of ten, collectors are trusting that I will honor that limitation.

The edition size becomes part of the artwork’s documented history.

That makes numbering not merely an administrative detail, but an ethical commitment between artist and collector.

5. Other Proofs: P/P, H.C., and Exhibition Copies

Beyond artist’s proofs and numbered editions, several other designations appear in the art world.

Marking

Meaning

Traditional Use

P/P

Printer’s Proof

Impression reserved for the printer or workshop

H.C.

Hors Commerce

Print designated outside the regular commercial edition

E/P

Exhibition Proof

Designation sometimes used for an exhibition copy

C/P

Cancellation Proof

Evidence that a printing plate or matrix has been canceled

H.C. is another French expression, meaning outside commerce.

These impressions have historically been used for purposes such as gifts, presentations, or other distribution outside the regular edition.

The designation does not permanently prohibit a print from being sold or transferred.

Printer’s proofs are associated with the people or workshops responsible for producing an edition.

Exhibition proofs are less standardized. Their meaning depends on the artist, publisher, or gallery.

Cancellation proofs belong particularly to traditional printmaking. A plate may be deliberately altered or defaced after an edition is completed so that additional impressions cannot be produced from the original matrix.

A final impression may document that cancellation.

In digital photography, there is no physical printing plate that can be canceled in quite the same way. The artist instead relies on edition records, production controls, and professional integrity.

These differences illustrate how older printmaking traditions continue to influence contemporary artistic practice, even when the technology has changed dramatically.

6. What Makes a Photograph an Original?

This is where the subject becomes particularly relevant to my own work.

When I take a photograph, I have created an original photographic image.

But what happens when I print it?

If I produce ten identical fine-art prints, are all ten originals?

In the language of fine-art photography, each authorized print may be considered an original photographic print within an edition, provided its production and authenticity are properly documented.

However, those ten prints are not ten unique, one-of-a-kind images.

They are ten authorized physical examples of the same artwork.

That distinction matters.

A unique artwork, often designated 1/1, means there is only one authorized example in that particular form.

A limited edition means multiple authorized examples exist, but the quantity is restricted.

An open edition means prints may continue to be produced without a predetermined numerical limit.

None of these categories automatically determines artistic quality.

A powerful image remains powerful whether it is unique, limited, or openly reproduced.

But the classification affects how collectors understand what they are purchasing.

7. Photoshop Complicates the Definition of Originality

My own artistic process often moves beyond traditional photography.

I may begin with a recognizable scene and then alter its colors, textures, lighting, and composition. I may combine photographic elements or create a painterly interpretation of the original image.

At what point does the resulting work become a different artwork?

Suppose I photograph a French village street.

The original photograph documents the location as I saw it.

Then I create a painterly version with altered textures, colors, and atmospheric effects.

Later, I create another interpretation that emphasizes architectural geometry.

Are these three versions part of the same edition?

I would argue that if the artistic changes are substantial enough to create distinctly different finished compositions, they deserve separate artwork identities.

Each could have its own title, edition records, and production specifications.

Minor printing adjustments, however, do not necessarily justify declaring a completely new artwork.

An artist should establish a consistent policy for distinguishing a new composition from a variant or printing adjustment.

This is especially important in digital art, where creating variations is technically easy.

The artistic decision is not simply whether another version can be made.

It is whether that version represents a new creative statement.

8. Does Size Change the Edition?

Another question arises when producing artwork for exhibitions.

Suppose I create a photographic composition and offer it in three sizes:

  • 8 × 12 inches
  • 16 × 24 inches
  • 24 × 36 inches

Could each size have a separate limited edition?

Yes, provided the edition structure is clearly established and disclosed.

An artist might authorize ten prints at one size and five at another.

Alternatively, an edition might be limited to a total number of prints regardless of size.

Both approaches exist in fine-art photography.

What matters is transparency.

A collector purchasing print 3/10 should be able to understand whether that limitation applies only to a particular size or to the artwork across all sizes.

Personally, I find the idea of documenting edition size, physical dimensions, printing process, and paper type particularly appealing.

It creates a historical record of how the artwork was presented.

9. Signing and Documenting the Finished Work

A signature establishes a personal connection between artist and artwork, but a professional record can communicate much more.

For a fine-art photographic print, useful information includes:

  • Artwork title and year of creation
  • Artist’s signature
  • Edition number or proof designation
  • Image and paper dimensions
  • Printing process and paper type
  • Date of printing
  • Certificate of authenticity or corresponding archival record

Traditional printmakers often sign and number works in pencil beneath the image, usually with the edition number on the left and signature on the right.

Photographers and digital artists may sign in the lower margin, on the reverse, or through an accompanying certificate.

There is no single rule appropriate for every medium or presentation.

A canvas wrap, aluminum print, and matted archival pigment print may each require a different approach.

The important consideration is consistency.

A clearly documented artwork should remain identifiable even if it changes owners or is exhibited many years later.

10. Is There a Hierarchy of Artistic Value?

When I first began looking at these designations, I wondered whether they could be arranged in a hierarchy, from preliminary artwork through increasingly valuable or completed pieces.

In terms of the creative process, a progression makes sense:

Sketch → Study → Trial Proof → State Proof → Approved Print → Finished Edition

But artist’s proofs, printer’s proofs, and Hors Commerce impressions do not represent higher levels of artistic completion.

They are classifications within or alongside the finished production process.

A/P is not automatically above 1/25.

Likewise, 1/25 is not automatically superior to 25/25.

And a preliminary study can sometimes become historically more valuable than the finished work because it reveals something extraordinary about the artist’s creative thinking.

That is one of the fascinating contradictions of the art market.

The markings tell us about production, scarcity, and provenance.

They do not tell us whether the artwork is good.

11. What I Would Like to Incorporate into My Own Artistic Practice

As I continue developing photographic and digital artwork for exhibitions, I see an opportunity to make the documentation of my work more systematic.

I would like each finished piece to have a clear identity that follows it from the digital file through printing, framing, exhibition, and eventual sale or retention.

A trial print should be identifiable as a trial.

An artist’s proof should be distinguishable from a regular edition print.

A unique composition should have a permanent record of its dimensions, medium, and date.

And if I establish a limited edition, the total authorized quantity should remain fixed.

I also like the possibility of retaining selected developmental prints.

Years later, those versions might reveal how an image evolved from its original photograph into the finished composition.

They could provide a visual history of the creative process, much as an artist’s sketchbook does for painting or drawing.

For me, that history is part of the artwork’s story.


Final Thoughts: The Story Behind the Number

The letters and numbers written beside an artist’s signature may appear to be minor details.

But they represent something much larger.

They tell us whether a print was experimental, approved, reserved, or part of a limited edition.

They connect contemporary photography and digital art to centuries of printmaking tradition.

They establish expectations between artists, galleries, and collectors.

And they encourage artists to think carefully about what constitutes a finished work.

Perhaps most importantly, they remind us that the creative process does not end when the image looks complete on a computer screen.

There are still decisions about materials, printing, presentation, edition size, documentation, and preservation.

As an artist, I find those decisions interesting because they require a different kind of creativity: deciding how the artwork will exist in the world.

The image communicates the artistic vision. The signature identifies its creator. And the numbers and letters help preserve its history.

One final question remains: If two prints are visually identical, but one is numbered 1/10 and the other is marked A/P, should we experience them differently as works of art? Or is that distinction something we bring to the artwork rather than something we actually see?


Songs in the Key of Jay: A Musical Story That Continues

  Songs in the Key of Jay: A Musical Story That Continues An upcoming album release with Gary Beckert, a collection of unfinished songs, an...