Four Hours of Music, a Farm Lunch, and a Beautiful Arizona Fall Day at Schnepf Farms

 

Sometimes the best way to spend a Sunday is to find a picnic table, enjoy some live music, and let the afternoon unfold.

There is something especially enjoyable about autumn in Arizona. While much of the country is pulling out sweaters and preparing for colder weather, we are finally able to enjoy comfortable afternoons outdoors. Today was one of those days, and I spent mine at Schnepf Farms in Queen Creek, taking in the fall atmosphere, enjoying a leisurely lunch, and listening to four hours of live music featuring Gary Beckert and Scott Jones.

It was a wonderful reminder that entertainment doesn’t have to be complicated. Give me a beautiful outdoor setting, talented musicians, something good to eat, and plenty of time to relax, and I’m perfectly happy.

A Little Country in the Middle of the Desert

Schnepf Farms has a personality all its own. From the moment you arrive, you feel as though you’ve stepped away from the usual pace of life. The dirt pathways, mature shade trees, rustic buildings, farm equipment, and open grassy spaces create an atmosphere that feels surprisingly removed from the surrounding metropolitan area.

The farm was dressed for fall, with pumpkins scattered throughout the grounds, hay bales lining the pathways, colorful autumn decorations, and strings of lights hanging between the trees. The carousel added a cheerful touch as families wandered between attractions and children enjoyed the activities.

I spent some time walking around and photographing the surroundings. There were plenty of interesting details, from the vintage tractor sitting in the grass to the farmhouse-style museum decorated with pumpkins. I especially enjoyed the shaded pathways, where afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and illuminated the orange pumpkin lanterns.

As a photographer, I naturally pay attention to details like these. The contrast between the brilliant Arizona-blue sky and the warm colors of the autumn decorations was particularly appealing. Even without the music, there was plenty to photograph.

Lunch with a View of the Stage

One of my first priorities was lunch, and the farm’s outdoor burger grill offered several choices. I settled on a pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw, chips, and a Diet Coke.

I found a picnic table with a direct view of the stage, which turned out to be an ideal spot for the afternoon.

There is something especially relaxing about eating outdoors when there is no need to hurry. The stage was directly ahead, the surrounding trees provided welcome shade, and the atmosphere was casual and comfortable.

The food was a satisfying part of the experience, but the real attraction for me was the music.

Four Hours, Two Musicians, and One Enjoyable Afternoon

Video was too long to put in the blog post so I am sending you over to YouTube. 

Music Samples:

Watch Gary Beckert here and here.

 Watch Scott Jones here and here

The musical entertainment featured Gary Beckert and Scott Jones, alternating hours over a four-hour period. This arrangement gave the afternoon a pleasant rhythm, allowing each performer to take the stage before turning things over to the other.

I have been following Gary’s musical activities, including his recent release of Songs in the Key of J, so it was especially nice to have another opportunity to hear him perform.

What I enjoy about smaller, informal musical settings is the chance to experience performers without the elaborate production that often accompanies larger concerts. The focus remains on the music itself, the personalities of the musicians, and the connection between the stage and the people listening.

The alternating performances also made for an interesting afternoon. Rather than hearing one artist throughout, the audience experienced two different musical personalities and approaches. That variety kept the entertainment engaging while preserving the easygoing atmosphere.

Four hours might sound like a long time to sit and listen to music, but when the setting is comfortable and the performances are enjoyable, the afternoon passes surprisingly quickly.

Jaymirai Keeping Things Moving

Jaymirai was also there to host the entertainment, adding another familiar presence to the afternoon.

A good host plays an important role in live entertainment, particularly when multiple performers share the stage. Introductions, transitions, announcements, and all those small moments help an event feel organized while still remaining informal.

Having Jaymirai there contributed to the sense of a community gathering rather than simply a scheduled musical performance.

That is something I continue to appreciate about the local music scene. Performers, hosts, organizers, friends, and regular listeners all help create opportunities for live music throughout the Valley.

More Than Just a Place to Hear Music

As I sat listening, I found myself thinking about how much the venue contributed to the overall experience.

Schnepf Farms is certainly different from a traditional restaurant, theater, or nightclub. Here, the music became part of a larger environment. Families walked around, children enjoyed the attractions, visitors had lunch, and others simply found a place to sit and enjoy the afternoon.

That created a different relationship between the performers and the audience. Not everyone was there specifically for the music. Some people stopped to listen for a while, while others continued exploring the farm.

For musicians, that kind of setting can present both opportunities and challenges. The environment is welcoming and accessible, but it also means competing with the normal activity of a busy family attraction.

From my seat near the stage, I could enjoy the performances while still taking in the surrounding farm atmosphere. It was an interesting combination of entertainment and everyday activity.

The stage itself was simple and rustic, decorated with autumn leaves and framed by hay bales. There was no elaborate lighting system or theatrical backdrop—just an outdoor performance space that fit naturally into its surroundings.

For this kind of afternoon, that simplicity worked.

Photographing the Experience

Naturally, I had my camera ready.

I photographed the grounds, the food area, the stage, and some of the seasonal decorations. I also captured a few scenes that helped tell the story of the day beyond the musical performances.

One of my favorite things about documenting these outings is that the photographs become more than individual images. Together, they create a visual record of the experience.

The wide photographs show the layout of the farm and its open spaces. The closer images capture details such as the pumpkins, decorations, and stage preparations. Even the photograph of my lunch tells part of the story by showing where I was sitting and what I was seeing.

I also took a selfie beneath one of the covered picnic areas. Sometimes it is important to include ourselves in the visual record rather than always remaining behind the camera.

Looking back through the images, I can already see the progression of the afternoon, from the bright midday sunlight to the softer, warmer light later in the day.

Why I Keep Seeking Out Local Music

My interest in local music continues to grow, and afternoons like this reinforce why I enjoy exploring different performance venues.

Scott Jones surprised me. I’d heard him sing in a softer voice before, but with more space between him and the audience, he seemed to just crank it up and let his voice fill the space. I really liked hearing that power come through. It showed me another side of his singing and made me appreciate his voice even more.

Each location has its own personality. A restaurant provides one kind of listening experience, while a dedicated music venue provides another. A farm, with its mixture of attractions, open space, and casual seating, offers something entirely different.

I am becoming increasingly interested in how these environments affect both the musicians and the audience.

There is also something valuable about supporting performers who continue sharing their music in community settings. Live entertainment doesn’t happen automatically. It requires musicians willing to perform, venues willing to provide space, hosts willing to organize events, and audiences willing to show up.

Sometimes supporting local music is as simple as buying lunch, finding a seat, and spending a few hours listening.

A Sunday Well Spent

By the end of the four hours, I had enjoyed a satisfying lunch, listened to Gary Beckert and Scott Jones, watched Jaymerai host the afternoon, explored portions of Schnepf Farms, and added another collection of photographs to my growing record of local experiences.

What made the day memorable wasn’t any single dramatic moment. It was the combination of everything: the music, the farm setting, the autumn decorations, the beautiful weather, and the opportunity to spend an afternoon without rushing from one activity to the next.

There is a special pleasure in discovering how much entertainment exists right here in the Phoenix area, often in places we might otherwise associate with completely different activities.

Schnepf Farms may be best known for its seasonal attractions and family outings, but today it also provided a lovely setting for an afternoon of live music.

For me, four hours of music, lunch at a picnic table, and a beautiful Arizona fall day turned out to be an excellent way to spend a Sunday.

October 25, 2026 — Schnepf Farms, Queen Creek, Arizona

When Abstract Art Becomes Personal: An Evening That Rekindled My Desire to Paint

Photo credit: ASU Gammage program

An unexpected lesson in artistic freedom, creative courage, and the possibility of returning to the canvas.

Recently, I wrote a blog post asking a question that has intrigued me for years: When does abstract become art?

I explored artistic intention, the role of the viewer, the influence of museums and galleries, and whether a painting needs to communicate something recognizable to have meaning.

I approached the question from the perspective of both an artist and an observer. I wanted to understand why some abstract works move us deeply while others leave us wondering what, exactly, we are supposed to be looking at.

Then, tonight, something happened that made the question much more personal.

I went as Gary’s guest to ASU Gammage to hear Australian artist and former stand-up comedian Sam Kissajukian present his extraordinary story of becoming a painter.

See Gammage Program

I expected an interesting evening about art.

I didn’t expect to leave wondering whether it was time to take my paints out again.

An Artist Who Didn’t Ask Permission

Sam’s journey into painting was anything but conventional.

After ten years as a stand-up comedian, he walked away from a profession in which he had become successful at giving audiences what they wanted, but increasingly disconnected from what he wanted to express. He found himself living and working in a former cake factory in Sydney, with little formal artistic training and virtually no experience painting.

And then he decided to become an artist.

There was something wonderfully liberating about that decision. He didn’t wait to master perspective, composition, color theory, or the rules of contemporary art. He didn’t begin by asking what galleries might accept or what collectors might purchase.

He simply began creating.

His first paintings were unconventional, sometimes absurd, often enormous, and filled with the kind of visual imagination that doesn’t seem particularly interested in obeying anyone else’s rules.

I found myself thinking about how often artists do precisely the opposite.

We learn techniques. We develop styles. We become proficient with particular tools. We begin to understand what works, what sells, what galleries accept, and what audiences appreciate.

And somewhere along the way, those things can become boundaries. Not necessarily bad boundaries. Technical knowledge and discipline are valuable. But what happens when proficiency becomes predictability?

What happens when we stop experimenting because we already know how to produce something that works?

The Freedom to Make Something That Doesn’t Make Sense

One of the most entertaining aspects of Sam’s presentation was his willingness to take an idea far beyond what most people would consider reasonable. When someone suggested that his paintings were too large, he created tiny versions. Then he built elaborate miniature environments around them.

When he became interested in framing, he began exploring whether the frame itself could become more important than the artwork. He imagined museums that defied conventional architecture, paintings that existed within other paintings, and artistic experiences that deliberately challenged the expectations of the viewer. Some ideas were ingenious. Others were impractical. Some were hilariously unsuccessful.

But I was fascinated by the underlying question.

Why must an artistic idea be practical before it deserves to be explored?

In my own work, I have become very comfortable with digital techniques. Photography, Photoshop, layering, compositing, and digital manipulation allow me to create images that would have been extremely difficult to produce through traditional methods.

I enjoy that process enormously.

But digital art also offers a tremendous amount of control. I can undo an action. Change a color. Remove an element. Reposition an object. Save multiple versions. Return to an earlier composition. I can keep adjusting an image until it satisfies me.

Standing in front of Sam’s paintings afterward, I began thinking about the very different relationship an artist has with physical materials. Paint moves. Colors mix unexpectedly. A brushstroke cannot always be taken back. Texture develops through the physical interaction between the artist and the surface. Sometimes the materials contribute something that the artist never planned.

And perhaps I have been missing that.

The Artist’s Internal World

Sam’s presentation was also a deeply personal account of living with bipolar disorder. He described a six-month period of extraordinary artistic productivity that coincided with a prolonged manic episode, followed by a devastating depression. He spoke openly about the consequences, the relationships affected, and his eventual diagnosis and treatment.

What impressed me was not the idea that mental illness produces great art. That would be a simplistic and potentially dangerous interpretation of his experience. Rather, it was his determination to understand his own creative process and find a way to continue making art from a more stable place.

During the discussion afterward, he explained that he can now draw upon memories of different emotional states without needing to experience their extremes. That distinction stayed with me. Art can come from joy, grief, curiosity, frustration, imagination, or a quiet moment of observation. It doesn’t require suffering.

But it does offer us a way to communicate things that ordinary language sometimes cannot adequately express. I thought about my earlier blog post and the question of whether the viewer completes the artwork. Sam offered another dimension to that idea.

Perhaps the artist begins by trying to make something internal visible. The viewer then brings an entirely different collection of memories and experiences to the encounter. The result is not necessarily a shared interpretation.

It is a conversation between two different internal worlds.

When the Paintings Became More Than the Story

After the presentation, we moved into the lobby, where Sam had exhibited a collection of his paintings. This was an important part of the evening for me. Listening to someone describe their artistic journey is one experience. Standing in front of the actual work is another.

The paintings were large, expressive, colorful, and wonderfully unconventional. They didn’t all share the same visual style, yet there was something unmistakably personal connecting them. Sam had described a similar experience at one of his early exhibitions. Visitors saw paintings that were remarkably different from one another, but somehow recognized that they came from the same person.

I found that idea especially compelling. Artists are often encouraged to develop a recognizable style, a consistent body of work, something that identifies them immediately. I understand why. Consistency helps establish an artistic identity.

But perhaps identity doesn’t have to mean repetition. Perhaps an artist’s identity can exist in the curiosity, imagination, and choices behind the work, even when the visual results are dramatically different.

That possibility is exciting. It suggests that changing direction doesn’t necessarily mean abandoning what came before. It may simply mean discovering another part of ourselves.

A Conversation That Made It Personal

I was fortunate to have an opportunity to speak with Sam after the presentation. Gary was also part of the evening’s conversations, and it was especially interesting to hear about the practical experience of installing Sam’s large paintings in the Gammage exhibition space.

There was something delightful about the contrast between the practical realities of hanging artwork and Sam’s seemingly boundless imagination.

Where would another painting fit? Could one more piece be added? How could the space accommodate work of such scale?

These are familiar questions to anyone who has prepared artwork for an exhibition.

I have certainly faced them myself.

During our conversation, I mentioned my own artwork and my experience working digitally. We talked about the possibilities of painting and the creative choices that different media offer. What mattered most to me was not any particular technical suggestion. It was the encouragement I felt to experiment again.

I found myself talking about taking out my canvases and returning to painting.

It was a thought that had been quietly waiting in the background, but suddenly it felt much more immediate.

I didn’t leave with a new artistic formula.

I left wanting to make something.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts one artist can give another.

Digital Art Isn’t the End of the Journey

I don’t see this as a rejection of digital art.

Quite the opposite.

My digital work has expanded my artistic vocabulary. It has taught me to see possibilities in photographs, to combine imagery, to experiment with abstraction, and to transform familiar subjects into something new.

I have learned an enormous amount from working with Photoshop and digital composition.

But perhaps I have begun treating the digital image as the finished destination rather than one stage of a larger creative process.

What would happen if I printed one of my digital compositions onto canvas and began painting over it?

What if I allowed acrylic paint to change the image rather than simply embellish it?

What if I stopped trying to preserve the original composition and allowed the painting to evolve into something completely different?

And what if I began with a blank canvas, without a photograph or digital design to guide me?

Those questions excite me.

They also make me a little uncomfortable.

Which may be an excellent reason to explore them.

Returning to My Original Question

So, when does abstract become art?

After this evening, I’m less interested in finding a definitive answer. I still believe artistic intention matters. I still think craftsmanship, composition, context, and the viewer’s experience all contribute to how we understand a work. But I am beginning to think that my original question may have been too focused on the finished object.

Perhaps I should also have been asking:

What happens to the artist during the act of creating?

What discoveries emerge when we allow ourselves to work without knowing exactly where we are going?

How much of our artistic identity is shaped by genuine curiosity, and how much by the expectations we have gradually accepted?

And when was the last time we made something simply to find out what might happen?

Sam’s story was extraordinary, sometimes hilarious, and at times deeply unsettling. His artistic journey is his own, and I have no desire to reproduce it. But I came away with an appreciation for his willingness to explore ideas without requiring them to fit neatly into an established artistic category. He reminded me that artistic growth doesn’t always come from perfecting what we already know.

Sometimes it comes from doing something unfamiliar.

Sometimes it comes from allowing a little uncertainty back into the process.

And sometimes it comes from remembering that we are allowed to change.

Perhaps It’s Time to Get Paint on My Hands Again

I went to ASU Gammage as Gary’s guest, expecting to enjoy an artist’s presentation and see some interesting paintings.

I came home thinking about my own studio.

About canvases.

About brushes.

About acrylic paint and texture and the possibility of making something that cannot be undone with a keyboard shortcut.

I don’t know whether my next artistic direction will be painting, digital mixed media, or some combination I haven’t yet imagined.

And for once, I’m quite comfortable not knowing.

My earlier blog post asked when abstract becomes art.

Tonight gave me another question.

What might happen if I stopped worrying quite so much about what the finished artwork should be, and simply allowed myself to create?

I think I would like to find out.