This is so strange. I mean, when you’ve been staring at this for months and finally get here, it feels like you’re meeting a celebrity.

But this wasn’t our first visit to the Cadillac Ranch, not by a long shot.

Let’s rewind it all the way back about 16 years. Our first date-iversary was coming up, and Chris and I were about to embark on my first Route 66 road trip. Chris was a Mother Road master, having ventured out several times “b.K.” As with previous trips, his goal was to collect Polaroid snaps of kitschy roadside attractions and neon motel signs before they collapsed or were sold to the highest bidder. Heading out from Milwaukee, WI, we’d try to huff it all the way to Santa Monica, CA in a little over a week. Could it be done??

A few weeks before we left, I still remember a night at our local laundromat. We’d busted out a notebook, worn out spiral-bound atlas, and a Route 66 photo book from Chris’ collection. While PJs, graphic tees, and bath towels spun in their suds, we sketched out eleven days of must-sees and mileage. At the top of our list (amongst the pile of Muffler Men, the Blue Whale of Catoosa, and the ghost town of Glenrio): ten Cadillacs buried deep in Texas dirt, coated in graffiti, some 1200 miles away. Now remember, this was May 2010. ‘Gramable food wasn’t even born yet. #Vanlife wasn’t a hashtag. Youtube was all about double rainbows and telling us to hide yo kids, hide yo wife. We all still had to get OUT into the dusty corners of the world to see them up close and personal, live and in color. After months of flipping through all Chris’ Route 66 books, I could not WAIT to see all these oddities with my own two eyes.

Wholesome, my friends, so wholesome.

Well, that trip turned out just as epic as I’d hoped back when I was hunched over that atlas in the plastic laundromat chair. We only made it to Ludlow, CA, less than 200 miles from the end of the Route. But we ogled all the googies and filled up on fiberglass. We stuffed our bellies in diners and our suitcases with tchotchkes. All of this, of course, included a stop at the infamous Cadillac Ranch. Back then there was no trailer filled with Caddy souvenirs, and you had to BYOPaint to tag the cars.

We sprayed away and enjoyed the best part about Route 66: every stop feels equally as outlandish as it is unassuming. Every mile is just as earnest as it is indifferent. Simultaneously a cartoon monstrosity, but also a ghost of itself. The whole 2448 mile stretch is the best kind of paradox, filled with iconic American symbolism for better or for worse.

Chris and I have made several stops at the Ranch since then, usually to try and take a night photograph, a plan repeatedly foiled by wind, rain, or clouds until we lucked out in 2020. It’s funny to compare our visits over the past decade and a half. In 2010, the field was bursting with green, and the cars still looked like cars. Now the field is patchy at best and the Caddies look like they were dropped in The Dip.

Ever since we put our 2020 shot in our art show, it’s funny to hear all the comments from lookieloos that poke their heads into our booth: “Well, that’s the best they’ve ever looked!” A lot of folks hate the Ranch. They think it’s hideous, an absolute eyesore. Truth be told, it’s never been all that close to Amarillo civilization, so the garish graffiti isn’t really hurting anyone on a daily basis. Perhaps the locals are embarrassed by the one thing people flock from all over the world to see (well, two if you count the FREE 72 oz. Steak at the Big Texan).

I love the Ranch. I love the ten silhouettes and vibrant neon that breaks up the endless taupe Texan fields if you’re driving from the west. I love that people decided to tag absolutely everything including the concrete barriers and asphalt road beneath your feet. I love that it feels like a sacred pilgrimage as you trek the long dirt path and approach what looks like a group of ancient megaliths. I love that every kind of person at every age is having a grand old time with a can of paint in their hand rather than a screen. I love that rush like you’re breaking some law, but it’s all perfectly authorized. I love that three artists funded by a philanthropist-prankster came up with this harebrained idea, and 50 YEARS LATER the site is still swarmed by people on the daily.

I know this because just last weekend, we took another journey to Cadillac Ranch. Now, just an easy breezy 300 miles compared to the 1200. This time, we needed to grab some goodies to pair with the launch of a NEW THING … a really neat thing we’ve never done before, sneak peek below. Another hint: the line I opened with in this post was indeed due to staring at these guys for months. It was really weird to see them in person again! Over the course of the next few weeks, we’ll reveal a little more about this project and how you can get your hot little mitts on it.

Until then, there’s still plenty of warmth and daylight left up here in the northern hemi. Is there a weird Atlas Obscura attraction that’s been collecting dust at the bottom of your Instagram saves? Might be time to grab some road snacks, cue up a playlist, and set course for the horizon. And if you’ve already filled your roadtrip tank this year, we’d love to hear about your own adventures! Drop ‘em in the comments or just hit reply.

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We’re four shows deep and the consensus is… yeah, it’s rough out there. I mean for almost everyone, artists and art patrons alike. But we all know this, so why rehash it? A musician I follow just sent out a newsletter brimming with optimism:

People are fucking awesome in general. When I go out in the world, it’s easy to see this. People are generous. They’re hilarious. They’re beautiful to be around. Everyone just wants to have a good time, hug somebody, have a bbq and a cocktail in the sun. — Brett Newski

Despite a gnarly case of global existential dread, that right there is the real truth. When sales are down, gas prices are up, morale is jittery, and tomorrow is never promised, the folks we see at our shows are always the lift we need to get through these deeper ebbs.

And hopefully we can do our own part to pay if forward. While we made our way through the DFW area for a couple Texas festivals, we cheered on two solo acts and two bands (shoutout: Blake Robert, John Hames, Brit Stop, and Driveway Dive where I may or may not have moshed to their cover of Rage’s “Killing in the Name”). Art fest travel can be grueling at times, so listening to good tunes and dancing off the demons gave us a good dose of bliss.

Anyway, if you’re new here and you’ve stopped inside our humble 10x10 tent, even if you couldn’t purchase something, you’ve got our sincerest gratitude! We’ll get through this thing one way or another.

The Good Things

1. Printer-gate is finally over.

If you’re just joining us, since Thanksgiving of last year, we’ve set up and tested not one, not two, not three, but seven different printers in every attempt to find one that works. It was a long, long road, but as of this past Tuesday, the madness is finally over. The good people of Canon (lookin’ at you, Cheryl!) acknowledged the hellscape and went above and beyond to make things right. In even better news, the less expensive Canon pro printer is what ended up working. A silver lining in this co$tly world we’re living in!

2. 100 Years of Route 66

In between shows, we’re working on a special, limited edition idea to commemorate the Route 66 Centennial in our own little way. Watch this space for progress, but here’s your hint:

3. Another big milestone

This summer also marks our own 15th anniversary doing art shows (not counting the minor hiccup that was 2020). In 2011, we decided to build our own booth out of pegboard and PVC pipes and give this art fair thing a go. (Truth be told, the smell of Home Depot still reminds me of building that thing.) Our very first show was a single Sunday in a Kenosha WI park:

We sold everything from the night photography you know and love to Holga shots of Googie signs and screen-printed tshirts of Polaroid cameras. It was all very hipster, birth-of-Instagram, early twenty-tweens. We made $366 and spent a healthy portion of it celebrating with Long Islands at the Boat House. In today’s dollars and tumultuous economy, $366 for a single day at an art fair is a windfall! We’ve done worse, kids!

The following month, we did our second show at the Mitchell Park Domes in Milwaukee. We threw some black paint on the pegboard to complement our PVC-pipe monstrosity that took three hours to put together. Those shutters really tied the room together.

We’ve come a very long way since those pegboard days. But 15 years really isn’t all that long. Our friends have children older than that! But a small business nowadays (especially an art business!)… man, to keep that going during the turmoil we’ve faced since 2011? We really do have to pause a minute and acknowledge all those sunbaked days and highway miles. Stay tuned for a more official, virtual celebration later this summer. If you don’t pause to pat yourself on the back and celebrate with the folks who supported you through it… especially when times are tough… what’s this all for?

Until then, here’s a question for you:

Whether you’re an artist or artisan yourself, or you’ve simply stopped by an art festival for an inspirational feast for the senses, what’s your biggest “Good Thing” of the year so far? Comment over at Substack or just hit “reply” and let us know. We need all the goodness we can get!

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This post was originally published on our website on February 18, 2018.

Sometimes a little adventure into the frigid winter turns into some Knowledge Dropped. Such was the case when we decided to throw ourselves a little belated Blood Blue Supermoon party after the clouds cleared the following night. Perfect skies. Not so perfect temperatures. With a low near 5 degrees, we bundled up and hit the road, south-ways toward central Illinois to find ourselves a Lost Bus, courtesy of some directions from friend and fellow photographer, Will Hiland.

Two and half hours later, we pulled into the lot of a nearby countryside tavern with two parked cars out front. Being so close to humanity, we figured: might as well step inside the bar to give them a heads up that two strangers are about to traipse around the property with flashlights. The barkeep was fine with it, confused I’m sure, but cool.

The bus was packed with all kinds of shenanigans, namely bags of some sort of organic material? It reminded us of ‘American Pickers,’ with Mike Wolfe diving around the junk to find treasure. Plus, there were a bunch of old rusty bikes, a Mike specialty.

No time for a deep dive though, it was beyond ridiculously cold, so we got to work.

And shot this quick little video for you too, to show the crouching and bending. Nimbleness is of the essence in this line of work!

We spent two hours out there in the cold, but our toes lived to tell the tale. We jumped back in the van, vigorously rubbed some warmth back into our hands and feet, and pressed homeward, entertaining ourselves for the next 2.5 hours with pop radio hits of the ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s and today, with none other than Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice” leading the way.

So let’s give this bus a little more context

Back home, we took the deep plunge into the interwebs to scrounge up some more info. First off, this particular bus appears to be a 1948 General Motors “Old Look” coach, straight out of Pontiac, Michigan. The exact model number is elusive, but it looks like a 3207 or a 3610, without a back door, likely because it was a Suburban bus—not a city bus—used for some central Illinois transit system in the ‘50s.

What really threw us into the proverbial rabbit hole was that the barely-there paint job is of the National City Line variety, identical to that of the Montgomery, Alabama bus line of the mid-‘50s. Orange, green, and white. The famous Rosa Parks’ bus. The bus which sat in an Alabama field rusting away for three decades before going up for auction, purchased for nearly half a million dollars, and placed inside the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan, and eventually fully restored.

After an extensive afternoon of reading more about Rosa Parks and the Montgomery Bus Boycott, that night we watched the week’s episode of ‘Superior Donuts‘ on CBS. Based on Tracy Letts’s play (which premiered at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre in 2008), the sitcom features characters from different races, religions, and creeds (Black, White, Columbian, Middle-Eastern, Jewish, etc.) who hang around a donut shop, testing one another’s values and learning various life lessons about cultural acceptance. The great thing about the show, though, is that it’s not a Full House style of “acceptance” with sweeping violins and hugs at the end, but instead puts a spotlight on the less warm and fuzzy areas, namely on those of us who think we’re woke, but are still totally clueless.

In this particular episode, Franco, one of the lead characters, played by Jermaine Fowler (who also wrote the episode) puts the rest of the group on the spot and asks them to name as many Black historical figures as they can—figures who aren’t athletes OR one of the “Big Four” typically vaunted for Black History Month (Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman, and, you guessed it…Rosa Parks).

Of course, this got us thinking.

So the following day, we got the research engine revved back up to take a closer look at some black history’s unsung heroes. In just one quick search, via this Marie Claire article, we discovered a totally different young woman who also stood up for her basic human rights by sitting down. The only thing though…it was nine months prior to Rosa Parks’ experience.

Enter: 15-year-old Claudette Colvin. Earlier that year, 1955, as she was riding home from school, she refused to give up her bus seat to a white onboarder. Despite threats from the bus driver and even though her fellow passengers moved, Colvin shouted that it was her constitutional right to sit where she wanted to sit. Doesn’t matter though because the cops arrived, dragged her off the bus, arrested her, and threw her in jail.

To get a…well…semi-realistic taste of what this experience must’ve been like for a young teenager, you have to watch the story told via none other than ‘Drunk History.’ (If you’re not familiar, it’s a Comedy Central/Funny or Die series where the storyteller gets drunk and then sloppily recounts some typically serious historical event on camera while actors reenact the events on a set. It’s not always the most accurate, but enlightening and hilarious nonetheless!)

The slightly more detailed account goes as follows: Eventually, after her arrest, Claudette Colvin joined up with four other women (Aurelia S. Browder, Susie McDonald, Mary Louise Smith, and Jeanette Reese) who were forced to give up their seats, and collectively took their case to the Supreme Court in Browder v Gayle (Gayle was the Alabama governor at that time). It was THIS very case that would lead to the U.S. Supreme Court’s order for the desegregation of Alabama’s bus system.

But why was it Rosa Parks, not Claudette, who received the notoriety for such a pivotal moment in black history?

Aside from Claudette’s young age, historians credit it to the fact that Parks was such a high profile member of Civil Rights activism and the NAACP—a “pillar of the community” so to speak—while Claudette was too young and outspoken. Some even say that Parks’ appearance—lighter skin—played a role. Ms. Colvin herself later said, she was “too dark-skinned and too poor to win the crucial support of Montgomery’s Black middle class.” Even so, people were outraged over Colvin’s arrest. The Women’s Political Council (WPC) and the NAACP were simply searching for the ideal way to take their action to the next level, especially after attempts made all summer long to work with the bus system on changes. When those promises were broken, and Rosa Parks was eventually arrested, everything fell into place.

After Parks’ incident, the WPC printed and distributed 35,000 leaflets urging for a city-wide bus boycott. To keep the momentum alive, they formed a smaller organization, the Montgomery Improvement Association, to focus on an indefinite extension of the boycott. Their president? A newcomer to Montgomery: 26-year-old Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Montgomery Bus Boycott lasted 381 days (crippling the bus company’s finances), until the Browder v Gayle Supreme court ruling in 1956. The rest is, of course, history.

And while Parks’ role in history at the time was crucial (some say Dr. King would never had risen to the role he eventually played if it hadn’t been for Parks and the boycott), the irony is that it was Claudette Colvin, along her fellow plaintiffs, who were the ones who helped change the law.

Our point here is that Franco was right in that ‘Superior Donuts’ episode. Admittedly, you won’t always care about the unsung heroes of history until something makes you care. And apparently that “something” can be a completely unrelated vintage bus that just so happens to be rusting away in a field, just like the historic Rosa Parks bus once did for nearly 30 years.

This rusty Lost Bus feels a lot more found, but in a way we never anticipated. It proves that stepping in a little deeper is ALWAYS worth the effort.

Of course, it’d be a travesty NOT to create an Adventure Soundtrack filled to the brim with as many good bus songs as we could think of. But more importantly, included in the mix is a version of the Rita Dove poem about Claudette Colvin, set to song, by John McCutcheon. After she suffered through tons of flack from her attachment to the Supreme Court ruling and reputation as “the girl who got arrested,” it’s no wonder Colvin kept a low profile. Fortunately, she found a more peaceful existence in New York City as a nurse’s aide. Awesome that this unsung heroine finally got her song.

For Claudette Colvin’s personal account of these events, you can listen or read her interview on Democracy Now! here.

And please, if you have any young ones in your life, pass along Ms. Colvin’s legendary story of a teenager who saw what was terribly wrong and refused to accept it, despite the trouble it might stir. We need courage like that more than ever.

As Black History Month comes to a close, do you have any unsung heroes in Black history or within the Black community that you feel need more recognition? Let us know! Comment or “hit reply” to this newsletter…

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“...when you stop working altogether, for long stretches, there is ultimate good in it for your creative work, whatever it is…. Paradoxically, not making art can teach you as much as making it.”

~Sally Mann, Art Work: On the Creative Life

I have to come clean. We haven’t created new work in over a year.

As we mentioned last time, we bought a house and moved cross country, but also maintained a summer and fall show schedule, plus the ol’ designer day job for Katie here. Just a landfill’s worth of intense mental load with little room for much else.

Once we settled in here this past fall, the most frustrating, tedious issue dumped more into that landfill. Our printer broke right before our last show of the season. I won’t bore you to the literal tears I shed troubleshooting it to no avail. And I also won’t bore you to the additional tears I shed trying to make not one, not two, not three, but four separate NEW printers work over these past three months. Whether it’s the lack of care shipment companies take in this modern day (all boxes were damaged), poor manufacturing, or just dumb luck, I share this because it’s the frustrating, tedious shit that demolishes all creative drive.

These are convenient and believable excuses for our lack of production, but the underlying truth is that with every passing full moon in 2025, I personally (not speaking for Chris here) felt like I was drifting further and further from being a Capital ‘A’ Artist. Maybe you’ve felt like this before with a creative endeavor or hobby or skill you’ve let atrophy for some time. Deep down you know you could probably pick it back up again, but there’s an iron wall between that Smart You and the Scared You who is terrified to find out how rusty you are.

A couple weeks ago, I stumbled upon photographer Sally Mann’s wise words in her latest book, Art Work.

“Paradoxically, not making art can teach you as much as making it.”

The spell was broken. The iron wall collapsed. The landfill of exhaustion and frustration composted down just enough to clear a path for my creative fuel to flow again. With the full moon just days away, I declared to Chris, “let’s go light painting this weekend.” He quickly found the perfect spot just two and a half hours northeast of us: a completely ghosted town south of Springer, New Mexico.

This would be the night where our next era as Capital ‘A’ Artists in New Mexico could officially reboot. I’ll turn it over to Chris to tell you about our experience prowling the dusty whistle stop of Colmar.

If you’re a fan of our work, you know our bread and butter over the years has been the Dakotas during the late fall, early winter. We’re no strangers to some frigid nights out there on the plains. Moving to high desert country, we’ve been blessed this winter season with mostly 50s during the day, but that temp plummets dramatically overnight. Our night in Colmor was no exception.

Before the sun and mercury dropped, we got a chance to explore the old town in daylight. Just off I-25 and old Hwy 85, we turned right at the cattle guard and took the dirt road until we basically traveled back in time, a return to the simple life of a whistle stop. Settled back in the late 1800s, Colmor allegedly maxed out at about 450 residents at some point in the early 20th century. Taking a glance around today, you’d never know, except for the remaining bones of a school that looked massive for its threadbare location. A fire long ago cannibalized most of its insides.

Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad traveled through here. The still-active train tracks split the town in half with main street on the west side, dotted with old buildings that likely served as a gas station, general store, post office, aforementioned school, and the residents’ homes.

The old places we’re used to exploring back in the midwest are usually stripped bare, but in one house a collection of books, stuffed animals, clothes, and mail scattered across the floor; a family must’ve lived here within the last few decades or so.

The sad ending to what was a living memory. Left it behind, hopefully, for better beginnings in nearby Springer or Wagon Mound.

Above all else though, it was clear that your average young, bored locals have a good ol’ time here. Like Swiss cheese, the buildings, cars, and oddly enough, discarded artwork featured an array of bullet and buck shot holes.

Usually we abide by the explorer creed: take only photos, leave only footprints, but we rescued a pretty great portrait of Prince himself from the stack of paintings that littered the ground by a ‘67 AMC Rebel—a little reminder of my hometown of Kenosha, 1200 miles away.

I took it all in. I stopped to absorb what the former townsfolk saw in this place in its heyday. Mothers picking up canned goods at the general store. Kids running around the school ground. Families waiting for a pivotal piece of mail or their loved ones on the train. The simplicity struck me. I compared the structures that have held steady for over a century to the decimation of the small American town from progress that I could literally hear to the west. A steady hum of Amazon semitrucks going 80mph, carrying the next batch of debris that might litter someone else’s deserted home at some point in our near future.

The sun hovered just above the mountains due west. The near full moon already beamed in the east. We both made our last mental notes of potential compositions for later that night. Scrolling through our phones, we showed each other our comps and “b roll” captures. Both Katie and I took a shot of the same book amongst the collection surrendered to the floor of one of the houses.

After over a year of artistic drought, I knew this would be a night to remember for us Moonrakers.

We left for Springer, checked into Broken Arrow, one of the best roadside motels we’ve ever stayed (and you know we’ve experienced our fair share), and grabbed a bite at The Depot: breakfast for dinner is always a good idea before a long night of crawling around abandoned buildings.

Our bellies full, we suited up, loaded the van, and ventured back out to dark backroads to shake off the past year’s rust. On our way we had to dodge frantic rabbits darting from the road’s overgrowth in front of our headlights. Just a little adrenaline dump to get us ramped up.

We started at the school in the town’s furthest corner. We captured a few angles, but, as Katie explained to me, trying not to break her ankle traversing the mountains of bricks in winter boots with no light to guide her proved to be a challenge.

We moved onto the house next door with its striking porch, the one with the book inside. At this point, the temp was falling fast. My gloves and boots were no match for the frost in the air. My toes were already losing the battle, and every time I took off a glove to adjust the camera settings, I felt the brisk bite. But my lips got the worst of it, as if cut by a razor across every millimeter. But as I stood at the bottom of the porch stairs, I ignored my body’s dashboard of warning signals and, instead, let the town’s quiet stillness ease my psyche.

A psyche, perhaps bruised by the tedious frustrations of surviving as an artist, but also battered by the depressing and terrifying news stream in this country. Looking around, I couldn’t help but wish for the simplicity and camaraderie of small town life. For that brief moment, I was at peace.

Wrapped up at the house, when we reached our van parked near the AMC Rebel, I noticed one of our license plate lights was still on. We set up the camera, but I couldn’t let it go; images of a dead battery and a 12-mile hike back to Springer gripped my imagination. Katie had a composition idea to keep her busy, so I tried to figure out the van. Grateful for the turn of the ignition, I noted the temp on our dash said 12 degrees. No wonder my appendages throbbed. No matter what I tried, though, the light wouldn’t turn off. I returned to an irritated Katie; she couldn’t get the lighting quite right on the Rebel. I warned her that our fingers and toes wouldn’t last much longer. The last photo would have to do.

We headed up the road to another house, our final composition for the night. A couple shots in, we decided to call it. The seemingly endless options for tableaus were like a siren song. For the sake of our shivering bodies, we had to say goodnight but vowed to return again when the night weather warmed up.

Back in the motel parking lot, we battled the cold a little bit longer to futz with the license plate bulb. I finally just ripped off the panel and disconnected the wiring. My night’s sleep would not be pilfered by thoughts of dead batteries in the morning!

Inside the toasty room, we swapped light painting attire for layers of PJs to rewarm our cores. Just about settled into bed, I was looking through an old blog of Colmor photographs to learn more about the ghost town. I stumbled upon a gorgeous shot of this single standing wall of the school. Katie caught a glimpse of my phone, and with an exasperated sigh, she admitted she wanted to get a shot of that wall, but forgot to look for it.

Well, as we always say: in for a penny, in for a pound.

We whipped off the bed’s comforter, swapped PJs for light painting attire, and grabbed our gear. In just a few minutes, we were back on Hwy 85 headed for that wall. Cattle guard, dirt road, frantic rabbits, dilapidated town, AMC Rebel, we reached the end of the main street and walked back up to the school. Rounding the corner, we found the wall. Sadly, it had collapsed since that photo was taken. Not much left aside from the little curved staircase. Still beautiful, though, so we took a few shots.

Not a half hour into our second venture out to Colmor, our digits screamed, that’s enough. We were back in the van—the dash now read 9 degrees—and back in the motel within the hour, satisfied with a solid night’s work.

Katie described the relief she felt, dusting off the metaphorical shelves of previous year’s stretch of inactivity. I’ll admit, I was a little paralyzed by the amount of photogenic locations New Mexico has to offer. Plus, shooting back in the midwest was so familiar. Aside from a few past stints along abandoned areas of Route 66, this region is new territory for us. We’re eager to explore, but we also want to pay respect to our new home state.

You really can let a thousand and one reasons hold you back. Fear is every artist’s kryptonite. But when your entire artistic career requires you to surmount an epic list of ‘scary’ things (wild animals, wild humans, wild weather to name just a few), you have to learn to reinterpret everything that’s telling you to give up and bolt. Especially the really stupid stuff like damaged license plate bulb wiring and very expensive yet poorly constructed printers.

Chin up, stay the course, keep going; it’s the American way after all.

For an even more of a ethereal experience, watch this little vignette of The Night to Remember house…

Exit through the gift shop

We’re admittedly still in printer purgatory over here, our fourth attempt back into FedEx’s hands as we speak, our fifth on the way soon enough. If any of the compositions you see here strike you, we’re offering pre-orders of paper prints at 20% off. Pop in an order, and we’ll send it out to you as soon as we’re back up and running. Direct links to the three featured pieces are below:

School’s Out Forever ›
A Night to Remember ›
We Have to Go Back ›

Have you explored Colmor, New Mexico? Have you ever dragged yourself out of a cozy warm bed to tend to an artistic endeavor that was gnawing at your brain? Or are you totally stuck in creative block limbo land? Let us know!

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Someone somewhere once said death, divorce, and moving were in the top most stressful events one can endure. According to this recent study, “About 82% of Americans who moved in 2024 say it was stressful, with 42% saying the process brought them to tears.” Accurate.

Add buying your first home into the mix, OH and make it cross-country. This summer, Chris* and I joined those 42% when we packed 15 years worth of living-in-the-same-house, 8000 LP and 45 records, and two anxiety-ridden cats, split amongst an ABF trailer, a Penske truck, and our trusty van, Moon Patrol. We bid bittersweet goodbyes to friends and family and Lake Michigan.

*Yes I saw Chris weep for only the second time in our sixteen-and-a-half years together. The details aren’t important, but obviously it says a lot about how much stress we’d been under, am I right?!

After months of planning and more to-do lists than should be legally allowed, our three-day journey across America’s heartland brought us safe and sound to Rio Rancho, New Mexico, just right outside Albuquerque.

I write this on the evening of two official months tucked comfy cozy into our new home. Nearly all the boxes are unpacked—including the vinyl collection, which took about two weeks to organize and put away (gasp! we finally combined collections!). We’ve been to Lowe’s like like 482,390 times. I now know how to swap outlets, eradicate sugar ants, and replace the entire innards of a toilet, thanks. We found a decent grocery store or four. We picked our top three favorite local breweries. We’ve made friends with neighbors. And we’ve ventured out to Truth or Consequences, Taos, and the Jemez Mountains.

I dare say we’re already obsessed with this place. Enchanted or entrapped (depending on the locals who either love it or hate it here…apparently there’s no middle ground). We can watch the sunset glow against the Sandia mountains from our back patio, wave to hot air balloons as they fly directly over our rooftop (!!!), and we’ve got the New Mexico state flag flying out front. We’re basically just a good payday away from matching roadrunner tattoos.

Why New Mexico?

When we tell the locals we just moved here—from Wisconsin no less—nine times out of ten, we get a bewildered expression: “...but…why?” (As if the photo evidence I’ve snapped so far isn’t Exhibits A through Q?)

For almost a decade now, Chris and I knew we wanted to move somewhere. Having both lived most of our lives in Wisconsin, it was just time for something new. My old hometown Des Moines was on the table. Kansas City was too. But the southwest howled the loudest. When we visited New Mexico on a lightpainting trip in 2020, we met a couple on the patio of the freshly renovated El Vado motel on Route 66. They sang Albuquerque’s praises; the seed was planted. We returned two years later to do the full state tour and decide if it felt like home. Yes. Gorgeous, engaging, affordable. Yes. After waiting out the worst of the house market insanity, we started the prep and search this past January.

But to answer the “...but..why?” well, it’s hard to put into words. Although Brianna West comes real close in this excerpt of her book The Pivot Year (big thanks to my sis for sending this my way—she’s ALSO moving cross-country in a couple weeks!).

A beautiful life is made from the heart, not the head…. A beautiful life is not one that is immediately comfortable, but one grown through the acknowledgement of what is worth being uncomfortable for…. A beautiful life is composed of the things our 90-year-old selves would have wished we’d done with the years in which we were so young but didn’t realize, before the decades piled up and passed us by and we came to find how little time even the luckiest among us have.

So here we are, writing our next beautiful life chapter. But a gigantic part of that is a fresh start for the Flash Nites and a reboot of our creative and mental hard drive. Admittedly, we’ve been absolutely terrible at all the digital marketing and social media things this year(s?) You have our word that we’ll kick it back into gear! For so many of you, we’re not sure when we’ll be back in our Midwest shows. Until then, we want to provide that 10x10 foot tent experience across thousands of miles to your little screen. A tall order, but we’re ready to give it our best shot!

As a token of our appreciation that you’re still here, reading this, we decided to release a very special, VERY limited edition print. Because it’s currently Hatch chile season here (you can smell the scrumptious roasting peppers outside every local market and grocery store), we thought it would be chef’s kiss to release the green version of our favorite New Mexico piece: El Servicio.

I personally love this one because Chris had to scour the New Mexico landscape using Google Maps to find it. It’s also not a New Mexico building unless Zia symbols adorn the exterior.

• Only 10 available of the 11" x 17" paper prints (frame and mat option available)

• Only 1 available of the 20" x 30" Chromaluxe aluminum (1" float mount + hardware included)

• Signed, numbered, plus certificate of authenticity and story

• Shipping the week of September 29th

• Might be a little bonus tucked into the package!

Get one while it's picante!

Where to next?

After a 2.5-month show hiatus, this week we finally get back on the road! Destination: Plaza Art Fair in Kansas City. A couple weeks after we return, we have our first home-show…pretty much a dream come true for this lady. Those close to me know that I’m bonkos for hot air balloons, so you might as well know too. I was out here the whole month of March house-hunting, and I kid you not, one morning I looked outside my Airbnb window to a whole flock of these babies drifting by. I screamed, scrambled outside, and ugly cried. Well, listen to this: for two weekends, we’re showing at the world-renowned Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. I just can’t. To wrap up the year, we’re spending our first Thanksgiving here showing at the New Mexico Artisan Market at Hotel Albuquerque. As for 2026, we’ve already applied to a boatload of shows in Texas, so hey, tell your southwestern friends we’re comin’!

As I always say, that’s a wrap! Thanks for holdin’ on and standing by. If you’re already on the hunt for holiday gifts or just feel the need to treat yourself after one heck of a weird year, grab a print on your way out!

Have you traveled out this way? Do you have any New Mexico recommendations of your own?? Please send ‘em our way!

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The Good

We have so many of you to thank for making it our best year ever. We were completely swept up in the love, especially in the new cities we visited this year. (We see you Greenville and Denver.) Against the backdrop of a tumultuous summer, we’re humbled and grateful.

Independent artist life is precarious to say the least. In a digital-first world—especially post-pandemic—I’m honestly a bit shocked street art festivals still exist. Folks still crave the craft—a thrilling little escape from the predictable confines of the big box industry. Personally, I blew my artwork budget this year, but this is work that inspires me to keep creating no matter how weird it gets out there.

From my 2024 collection, left to right: Pete Kornowski, Katie Musolff, Adam Hoffman

Maybe like me, you also recognize that a great piece by a “festival” artist isn’t just about their talent and skill level, but also the blood, sweat, and tears that literally go into the process of setting up shop out there in the elements.

The Not-As-Good

Ask any artist and they’d readily admit there was a palpable sense of unease and unrest all summer, which translated to some really, really tough shows. And we were not immune, sometimes barely breaking even.

No matter which political faction you subscribed to [or opted out of!] this year, I think we can all agree the economy and the election were the flies in the sunscreen. And, man, did we feel it out there working the pavement. “I love your work. I’d buy it if I could afford it.” It was as if we accidentally set up a confessional booth. How do you compassionately respond as an artist? Particularly an artist who captures the complex dynamics of how the “American Dream” has unfolded…and folded…throughout our history?

The Truth

Over the past 18 years or so, since Chris first started making this work, America has suffered and rebounded any number of times. When I came on board in 2009, we’d all just experienced the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression. I personally knew friends and family who’d lost their jobs and their homes. That’s why I was so fascinated by the work Chris was making and why I wanted to be part of it. Collapse bursting with lustrous gem tones—what a dichotomy! It’s such a quintessential symbol of this country’s hope in darkness, its determination amongst destitution.

Americans—the cuckoo creative ones at least—really have a knack for putting a brilliant spin on a shitty situation, for better or worse. In this country, it’s always simultaneously best of times / worst of times, and we just keep on truckin’. That’s what makes America so unique to the outside world—so loathed, yet so loved.

With over a decade in, Chris and I know exactly how capricious this art world can be—from the socio-economic climate, to the dark storm clouds that might destroy your art booth, to the mood of the artist judges who decide whether you’re in or you’re out. Sometimes there are years when we just have to brace for impact. But as the adage goes, it’s always darkest before dawn. At least we’ve got some pretty decent flashlights.

The Season

Gifting season is already coming in hot and heavy. If you’re like us—eager to support the arts during these weird and wild times BUT also watching your finances like a hawk—we’ve got four ways to help you out this holiday season:

1. Right now, buy one 8" x 10" or 11" x 17" print and get another same-size print totally free. There are no promo codes, no limits.

2. Get 20% off select Chromaluxe aluminum pieces (sized 16" x 24" and 20" x 30"). Again, no promo code necessary.

3. We’re offering free shipping on both of these deals. For the Chromaluxe, that’s a steal as shipping the bigger ones can cost up to $60 depending on where you live.

4. 10% of every purchase until the end of November will go to our favorite non profit: ArtWorks for Milwaukee. This incredible organization helps young students gain transferable career skills through art internships. If every discounted Chromaluxe piece sells, that’s at least $300 to ArtWorks. Let’s do it!

Below are the links to each sale, both end on Saturday, November 30th. Email us right away if you have any trouble or any questions.

Shop 20% Off

Shop BOGO Prints

As we always say: it’s people like you who help us keep indie art alive and well. On behalf of artists everywhere, thank you for your support right now. Whether it’s a purchase or a kind compliment, we’re forever grateful for both.

In our next episode of Not Your Normal Night, we’ll unveil a couple of new pieces we captured this past October. Stretch out those quad muscles and get ready to climb.

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We met you in one of these cities because you decided to stop inside a 10x10 foot tent. You snuck a peek at the wild colorful artwork inside that’s NOT Photoshop. You liked it so much that you gave us permission to email you, which, in today’s day and age, is a hot commodity. We’re totally grateful and so stoked you’re here. I’d offer you a homemade taco casserole if I could!

Speaking of tents on streets in cities across the country, let’s dive into a topic we rarely (if ever) discuss: street art festivals. We wouldn’t normally bore our readers with the banality of this world, but something occurred to me this past 4th of July when I knelt down in street filth as ragged sobs shook my entire body. It was in that very street filth—when the bone-dry Denver air robbed what was left of the moisture in my mouth yet plump tears tumbled from my eyes—that I thought: why not peel back the grimy vinyl tent curtain to dish up the dirty details?

You see, I was in the midst of a full-on meltdown because I thought I forgot to pack the velcro tabs we needed to hang all of our work. Since we started up this weird life back in 2011, this summer’s 7,956 miles of The “What Election?!” U.S. Tour has proven to be the most intense venture yet.

And yes, velcro tabs finally broke me.

Odds are, you probably know at least one artist/musician/circus-freak personally (or, at least now you do, hi!). About 15-20 years ago, as social media gained traction, it got a lot easier to decide to be an artist, at least a part-time one. Advertising your work to “the masses” was cheap, if not free. It was a golden age. As we all know now, those prosperous years online are behind us. We’ve gotta take this shit back to the streets, back to face-to-face conversations inside the cozy confines of a 10x10 foot tent.

Just like in medieval times, sluggin’ it out on concrete remains a tried-and-true option for those of us with the hardcore constitution to not just endure, but thrive in this circus life. It’s definitely not for the faint of heart.

Because, in a matter of 24-hours*, you may have to:

• Drive for 8-10 hours to get halfway to your next show.

• Try not to get pinned between a concrete barrier and a rogue semi-truck that swerves because the driver next to them is texting.

• Assemble a respectable dinner from the fresh offerings at a roadside Kwik-Trip.

• Try to figure out the real address of the Airbnb your host swapped you to because the other one had a toilet leak, but it’s really hard to understand her instructions due to the deafening roosters in the background.

• Shop Walmart at 10pm for a dress, contact solution, and makeup because you forgot your luggage at home.

• Refresh your weather app way too often because of a potentially violent storm gathering steam just northwest of you.

• Set up your art booth shoeless because the street is flooded.

• DIY-fix a piece of your booth because a freak windstorm damaged it.

• Find the nearest building with AC because it’s 106°F inside your tent.

• Obsess over a crucial overnight delivery that keeps getting postponed (and, no, it did not arrive on time). 

• Coordinate shipments with friends, family, and/or neighbors so said shipments don’t get stolen from your porch.

• Keep up with accounting, which includes the deep rabbit hole of understanding paying sales tax in a multitude of states, some of which are super easy (thank you, Illinois), some of which require no less than 23 open Chrome tabs to figure out (looking at you, Ohio), and some of which are a complete ripoff (WHY with the quarterly missed filing penalty of $50, Texas, whyyyyyyy?!)

*Ok so these things didn’t all happen in 24 hours but they DID all happen to us this summer!

And of course, that just scratches the surface. The bulk of the stress comes from simply remembering everything. Any indie artist/musician/circus-freak who can’t afford a tour manager knows that a smooth show requires a fully charged memory bank (backed by copious checklists, of course). Well, our memory and our lists began to break down at the end of June; we just couldn’t keep up. We ran out of ink, we ran out of paper, we ran out of print packaging, we ran out of bubble wrap. But honestly, such a GREAT problem to have, am I right?? All thanks to you, our incredible collectors! Our hearts are filled to the very brim with gratitude. After a tumultuous few pandemia years, this was precisely the summer we needed to get back on track.

I’m writing this note to you on the Friday before show number 10 of 13. It’s hard to believe we’re in the 2024 Tour home stretch with four more shows remaining. Every bump, every bruise, every ripped toenail, every flooded street gutter, every near-death experience with a semi-truck—it’s all worth it. For it’s all y’all that keep us going when the going gets tough! (Because lord knows this economy isn’t very forgiving! Who buys art when they have to put expensive eggs on the table?!)

So with all that said, if you’ve got some blank walls or empty drawers to fill and something in our booth caught your eye and you just can’t stop thinking about it, here are some REAL 5-star booth visitor reviews:

“It’s so nice to see something other than colorful doors in Greece.”

“Wow! This makes coming here worth the hike!”

“It’s like you tell part of the story but not the whole thing and I want to know the rest!”

“This is so much better than Fort Worth. It’s the same boring stuff every year.”
—Woman from Dallas

“Pictures in the woods aren’t as cool as these are!”

“This is so saaaatisfying!”

“This is making me cry!”

“You’re on my Dream Board on Pinterest!”

“Absolutely rad dude!!”

“This shit is crispy as hell!”

Exit through the gift shop

So with that, Chris and I both thank you for tagging along with us during this year’s rodeo! Once the jets cool off a bit, we’ll be back in this Sub-space with more adventures to share. In the meantime, here’s a handful of shots from the road this summer…

Before you go, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze, go grab a print, keep cool, and stay crispy as hell!

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Even though I’ve taken some big risks over the years—this art business very much included—I still tend to play it safe and make calculated choices rather than blind leaps. And yet, in hindsight, those precarious chances I have taken are always a blast, packed with juicy life lessons that satiate my thirst for the wild and weird.

I know the thrill of holding my breath as I face that big scary door…
cautiously turning the knob to open it…
gingerly stepping over the threshold…
…and then marveling at the Wonderland I’ve entered.

And yet, I’ll often just leave that door closed, too scared even to approach.

We just shot a brand new photograph that—for me, at least—captures the mental gymnastics that surround that terrifying electrifying next chapter. But before I get into the Magic, let’s talk Science. They make the best bedfellows, after all. 

A Door in the Dakotas

In our early art show days, we featured this photograph of a door outline on top of a set of lonely steps to a place that is no more.

To create the image, we hopped a fence in the ghost town of Sims, North Dakota, paying no mind to the No Trespassing sign. Of all our pieces, this one’s the biggest challenge for folks who don’t yet understand how Photoshop or computer manipulation is NOT at play here. They’d all ask the same questions:

• If it’s not Photoshop, how did you put the door there?

• If you’re drawing the door, why can’t I see you on the steps?

• Are those all shooting stars?

• Why does it look like day, but I can see stars?

And if you’re new here (oh, hi!), perhaps you’re also curious. But why put you through a snorefest of a lecture about f-stops, shutter speeds, and ISO? For the past seven years or so, we’ve given the same talk to elementary and middle school kids and found that there’s no need to explain our process like it’s a chapter out of our Canon owner’s manual.

Strange news from another star

What we call “star trails” in the biz are a key indicator of a night photograph’s time-lapse as the earth rotates. And if you think about it for a minute, it’s a little dizzying, but a pretty magical reminder of how we’re just spinning away down here.

During the time-lapse, the camera’s shutter remains open for three-to-four minutes. Compare this to the lightning-quick “eye blink” of a typical camera or phone photo. Imagine you’re in your bedroom, and you shut off the light. If you blink, you probably can’t see much of anything. But if you keep your eyes open and your pupils dilate like a camera lens, shapes start to appear as your eyesight acclimates to the dark and registers more light over time. While not exactly the same as the science of long-exposure photography, especially digital, at least you get the gist.

Bang at the door, anyone home?

Ok, so the shutter is open, and the camera photoreceptors are recording everything. Imagine me on top of the steps, armed with an LED flashlight.

I quickly draw a lifesize rectangle, hide the flashlight under my palm, move the flashlight to my middle-right, and then draw a small circle. Six seconds later, I’m done, and I’m scampering down the steps and outside of the camera’s view. We’ll get to why I don’t show up in the image in a sec.

Marvelous night for a moondance

Because we usually shoot during the full moon, our photos can sometimes look like daytime, especially regarding the weather and moon’s placement in the sky. Winter usually offers up a very crisp, clear night with a high moon that bathes the landscape with light. We’ve also shot during the Supermoon when its orbit is closest to the earth, giving us a few more degrees of luminosity than usual.

A camera is much different than our eyesight in that, in low light conditions, photoreceptors still register color while our eyeball cones need a lot more light to do so. This is why our photographic night skies look so much bluer than the dark desaturated sky we physically see.

Ghosts appear and fade away

To illustrate why my body doesn’t show up while I draw the door, here’s an alternative take of the “Dakota Door” photograph where Chris and I stand at the top of the steps for about 30 seconds, then run down out of frame, but keep the shutter open for another few minutes.

In this technique, we look like ghosts because—while our bodies are initially exposed by moonlight—after we leave the frame the background landscape begins to fill in where our bodies once stood, not unlike a double exposure.

These images are a great example of the physicality of the work. The camera and flashlight are tools, like a painter’s brush. The “art” happens by our handiwork and labor. There’s usually a lot of running involved. And sometimes climbing. Honestly, it’s really more of an art performance than a traditional landscape photograph.

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Through this tunnel of love

Speaking of labor… when you put it all together, it all seems so easy. Until it’s not.

After many years in our catalog, we decided to retire the door on the steps. Chris has been begging me to help him recreate a new doorway image he’s dreamt about ever since he found the Quincy Tunnel tucked underneath the railroad tracks near our house. But I kept putting it off because, deep down, I knew it would give us hell.

Hot damn if I wasn't right.

Let’s take a look at this sampling of outtakes. Remember, we’re not trying for a batch of individual shots to Photoshop together. We need one to be The One.

First: let’s practice getting the door right.

Woof.
Ok now let’s try to balance the blue-meets-orange tunnel light painting AND nail the door at the same time.

Betterish, but yikes. Ok let’s keep trying…
And trying…
…

While a single photograph of the door and the tunnel took less than 30 seconds to create…it took over 100 tries and two nights to get “right.”

Getting the best door proved to be the toughest challenge (I swear, the curve of the tunnel was throwing my perspective and I.could.not.get.it.straight.) But the major blunder was the orange blast coming from me and my flashlight down at the end of the tunnel. While we were looking at the images on the tiny LCD screen, I thought I wouldn’t be bothered by it because of all the streetlights coming from that end. But once we got home and I looked at the images on a 21.5-inch screen, I hated it.

I declared a full redo that next night. This time, I brought a sheet of black Coroplast to hide behind while I illuminated that part of the tunnel. 

Here’s a video of the entire process without the Coroplast so you can see exactly what I’m doing.

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Isn’t it funny how, when you learn the secret of the magic trick, it’s often a no-brainer? As I mentioned earlier, we teach young students how to draw and paint with light, hoping they’ll try something like it at home. If you have the camera, give it a whirl!

Practice makes less-than-perfect

As with anything, the process itself may look easy, the best results take time. As I said, it took us over 100 shots and two nights to get this “right,” and I used air quotes because, as you’ll notice in this big reveal, the final photograph is definitely not perfect. 

The door frame wavers and, at the back of the tunnel, you can see just a hint of my ghosted legs as the ambient light illuminates my body during the time-lapse. These so-called “flaws” are the mark of the human hand, rather than the precision of a Photoshopper.

It’s the imperfections that separate craft from commodity.

Finding Wonderland

Again, I knew this image would be a challenge to pull off. It’s why I faced so much resistance getting myself into that dank, dark tunnel. Once we got it though, in hindsight, the little adventure was a full of those juicy life lessons. Even during the part where I kept whisper-yelling at Chris: don’t you think I WANT to get the door straight?!

Whenever you find yourself at the precipice of a weird, wild, trippy next chapter, it’s probably not going to go perfectly, now is it? Let this image encourage you to jump into whatever Rabbit Hole beckons you, despite your misgivings about what it will take to get through the other side.

Don’t wait. Open the door.

The hard work is worth it.

The challenge is always the key to unlock the way out of the way in.

Now you go!

• What less-than-perfect project are you still very proud of because of what you learned?

• What epic challenge do you appreciate now in hindsight?

• What’s something you’re scared to try? (Maybe we can nudge you in the DO IT direction!)

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Interested in purchasing this photograph? You’re in luck! Its show debut will be at the Columbus Arts Festival this weekend, but because you’re on the list, you get the first glimpse!

Open the Door

“Looks like we’re going to be here awhile, so…coffee?”

Chris and I walk the highway from the mechanic’s over to JaBBr’s Family Restaurant, a greasy diner known for its colorful ceramic mug and saucer sets—pops of tropical Floridian Deco amongst the dusty taupes of the northwestern prairie. Nausea stews in my stomach that we’re probably screwed. I try to pass it off and enjoy my coffee, but I can’t help but jump to depressing conclusions. We’re about 1,000 miles from home—in Bowman, North Dakota (population 1,700)—and our car won’t get out of second gear. This cup can only end in tears.

When a car isn’t just a car

It’s October of 2016. About every autumn since 2009, Chris and I would take a long road trip to go shoot photography—at first it was Polaroids and then morphed into the light painting trips during the full moon that we still take to this day. On these epic treks, we’d usually take my maroon 2004 Hyundai Elantra hatchback, affectionately dubbed Bloodball, who was one hell of a workhorse. Purchased by yours truly in 2008, with a mere 39,422 miles on the odometer, by that red letter day in Bowman we had clocked in at 156,075.

Over those eight years, Bloodball had taken us all over the country: All the way out to the dusty Route 66 ghost town Ludlow, California. Deep south to Austin, Texas for an art show. And most poignantly of all, to our elopement/wedding day in Nashville, Tennessee. As I’m sure many of you readers can attest: when you name your vehicle, and spend a significant amount of time going to significant places, it becomes an integral and emotional part of your family.

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Go West Find Gold

So let’s rewind a bit from that colorful mug of depressing JaBBr’s coffee. This trip to North Dakota was particularly crucial because we were on the prowl for a one-of-a-kind shot. We planned to locate and light paint a particularly unique subject, and then print the photograph one single time—a 1/1 edition. See, most photographers don’t sell OOAKs in their shows like a painter would. My assumption is that most buyers wouldn’t believe a photographer who claimed they’d never reprint a shot when it’s so easy to do. But we were determined to make it a thing. We dubbed it our #GoWestFindGold tour and put our plans on blast all over the web.

The beginning of the end

So it’s the night prior to our wait at JaBBr’s. We had gathered all our light painting gear, ready to shoot a neighboring ghost town named Griffin, where we had a hunch we’d strike our gold. The deserted town still had an abandoned school, train car, and a whole field of varying vehicles—including one very unique one—just waiting for the pop of our colorful flashes to come back to life, if just for one night.

Sitting in the kitschy North Winds Lodge motel parking lot, ready to head out to Griffin, we started Bloodball up and right away knew something was off. As we began to drive out of the lot: the red glow of the check engine icon confirmed our assumptions. But after coming all this way, a little car trouble wasn’t about to stop us.

Yes, let’s go ahead and drive 30 mph in second gear on a 65mph highway at 10pm. If the car completely dies on location, it’s only seven miles from town. Totally walkable.

Well, we struck gold thrice that night. First, the weather that threatened rain cleared and left behind a unique cloud cover, perfect for photography. Next, we bagged just the loot we needed to fulfill our one-of-a-kind goal: a magnificent 1951 Spartan Royal Mansion—a 33 feet long and 2.5 ton aircraft-grade aluminum beast of a glorified home on wheels. Fully restored, these beauties fetch quite the bag themselves. We even helped a Spartan collector who spotted our photos on the web broker a deal with the landowner to purchase this hunk of history. So save yourself the trip because she’s someone else’s project!

And our third bit of gold: Bloodball made it back to the motel in one piece. Albeit still very broken. The next morning we slowly pulled into the shop of kind mechanic named John McGee on the east edge of town. As you tend to do in small towns, we chatted for awhile with John and his wife, Gail, before getting down to business. Gail shared some snacks with us. We told them all about our adventurous vocation and showed them photos. We even brushed on politics, which—if you sneak a peek at the ol’ calendar—is just about to buckle our country in for one hell of a wild ride. John told us he’d do his best to figure things out. We said we’d wait down at the diner.

We’ve still go work to do

Sipping JaBBr’s Columbian roast, we mull over what to do about the rest of the trip. John the Mechanic gives us a ring with an update. Might just be the output speed sensor, but it could be a solenoid. We can start with the sensor, but it’s going to be awhile before the part arrives. Let me know if you want me to proceed. We walk back to the shop, sign papers, and trepidatiously ask if there are any rental cars in town. Our luck is still gangbusters because there’s one car left at the small dealer car lot next door. We head over, sign more paperwork, hop into the rental, and head north to shoot for the next two days. The extra $336 in rental cost was worth it because we snapped one of our most popular shots, located in Alamo, North Dakota, the very top northwestern corner of the state.

Many years later, this photo would be discovered upon Google search by a man down in Florida. He emailed us a breathtaking tale about how his great-grandfather, Lenard Ramsfield (nee: Ramsfjell), immigrated from Norway, built and homesteaded this house, and raised eight children there with his wife. Three generations lived in the home until the last one parted for a new life. He told us any Ramsfield that lives in the U.S. is related to his great-grandfather. Knowing this history fills this photograph not just with light, but with life.

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Rehomed

We snake our way through the northwestern stretch of NoDak, with a quick stop in Teddy Roosevelt National Park. We see all kinds of badlands and wildlife and learn—after asking a ranger, what’s up with that helicopter—that bison must be rounded up for testing to maintain herd size and diversity. Hundreds are then removed and rehomed to the surrounding Native American tribes. Bison return to the people who know how to honor every fiber of this beloved animal’s body, for nourishment, for warmth, for tools, and for art.

As we travel back south toward Bowman, John the Mechanic calls. Our luck runs dry.

I’m sorry, looks like it’s a transmission issue…you’d have to get it towed to another town.

At various points in trip, Chris and I had both discussed what we’d do if it was the transmission. Keep Bloodball going or put that $3k into a new vehicle?

At over 150,000 miles and over a decade old, Bloodball’s final destination would be North Dakota.

We tell John we’re on our way back to settle up and figure out a way home.

We stop to breathe in last view of the North Dakota badlands. And yes, I’m not ashamed to admit that I weep as I gaze at the scrubby, undulating vista. Yes this car is just a hunk of metal and plastic. And also yes, this car is so much more: The first car I bought and paid off all by myself. The vehicle in which I made a life-altering mistake and learned a valuable lesson. A symbol of both my independence after breaking it off with an ex and the partnership I built when I said yes to this weird and wild life with Chris across America’s highways and byways.

Feeling sympathetic to our dour situation, John cuts us a break on the final cost. The return home won’t be the most convenient, timely, or cheap excursion. We borrow the Bowman rental for one more night and drive three hours south to pick up a new one-way rental at the Rapid City Regional Airport. Separately, our two-rental convoy heads back north to drop off the Bowman car. All-in-all we end up spending over $1200 to come home carless.

But like so many of our adventures, the story is priceless.

So what happened to Bloodball?

In Rapid City, we pondered driving to Griffin the Ghost Town to put Bloodball to rest with all the other broken cars. But the better idea became Kars 4 Kids (apologies if that ear worm is now stuck on repeat for you). Like those bison, maybe the parts and scrap metal would be put to some constructive use.

A couple weeks later, we purchased our current workhorse: a midnight blue Ford Transit Connect, which we dubbed Moon Patrol after the Atari game. Ironically, five years and 60,000 miles later, we would shell out $3,000 for a new transmission. Maybe it made a difference we were only a few blocks from our house when it slipped? Maybe we had a hunch Moon Patrol had some life in him yet.

We also mailed John and Gail a couple prints as a thank you for the gift of the kindness of strangers and a good story to share with our people.

Now you go!

• Tell us about your family member disguised as a vehicle? Did you give it a name too?

• Have you ever been stranded on a cross-country trip?

• Have you ever experienced the kindness of strangers in a strange land?

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Before you go, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze. And maybe exit through the gift shop. But you can always keep reading. Head into the tunnel……

Speaking of the kindness of strangers, a warm welcome to all of our new subscribers from Greenville, South Carolina! We understand why y’all moved there!

It was now or never. Climb over triumphantly or sulk home in defeat? Without thinking, I peeled back a small, loose part of the fencing and rolled my photography gear—my camera, lights, flashlights, and tripod—far enough away that it’d be unretrievable unless I climbed up and over. While not overly expensive it was all I had at the time. My mind ran wild. My pulse throbbed in my ears. And my treasured belongings sat there on the other side of the fence in a pile glaring at me, taunting me!

Climb over, you fucking chicken! 

How did I get here?

Back when the portfolio website Flickr was one of the few ways to share your photography with the internet, I had amassed a following that was solely based on my innate interest in everyday walkabouts, travel, and Americana. I loved the vibrant texture and weird oddities along old highways like Route 66, Highway 41, and Highway 12 here in the midwest.

I never passed up a chance to go out and capture the old roadside attractions, diners, gas stations, and motels with their Googie style, especially if they were abandoned. Eventually, though, basic point-and-click in the daylight hours became way too mundane for me. Something was missing. I needed a challenge.

On Flickr, I stumbled into what I’ll dub a West Coast phenomenon: the night photography technique that paired long exposure and light painting. I discovered and befriended several talented artists at the time: Jeff Morris aka It Was the Light It Was The Angle, and now quite famous Darren Pearson, aka Darius Twin, and Todd Hido. They all had something unique that stimulated my appetite for a challenge. But the leader of this innovative pack at the time was clear—and his work ticked all the boxes—night, Americana, and color, VIBRANT color. Troy Paiva, aka Lost America. He’d been up to the task since 1989.

I sought out his website. At the time, he featured a “Get This Gear” section to inspire others to start their night photography journey. Now, this was the mid-2000s, and while eBay and Amazon were most certainly a thing, it wasn’t as easy to buy exactly what you needed back then. This is where my thrifting experience came into play. 

Gathering my tools

Like I said, I love old Americana, so after exploring rummage and estate sales, antique stores, and second-hand shops all over the country, I considered myself an expert thrifter. One thing I knew well was camera gear. With my list of supplies in hand, I walked through a small church thrift outlet and found a few Vivitar 283s: the strobe flash workhorse for light painting. Naturally I grabbed all three of them. Naturally, only one worked.

Next on the list: color theater gels. Back before LEDs took over the lighting industry, theater productions and concerts had to use heat-resistant plastic filters over stage lights. We have a local treasure here in the Wisconsin/Illinois area called American Science & Surplus—the place to go to find all your random odds and ends—and precisely where I found a motherload of gels. I bought $25 worth of every color I could imagine for my experiments.

Then I battled the challenge of fitting said gels to my Vivitar and other small flashlights so that they stayed put during use but were also easily interchangeable (especially in the dark!). I tried a DIY approach, but it had so many flaws. I hit the internet and eventually stumbled upon a contraption that would hold gels in place.

Finally, I had everything I needed.

Or so I thought.

Every beginner runs into the same challenge: after the rush of collecting tools, you eventually have to get down to business and use them.

I needed courage.

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Just do the thing.

I did some quick experiments with my Canon Rebel XT and cheap, wobbly-ass tripod in the dark in my house. The images were comically bad.

I needed to get out of the safety and comfort of my house. I needed to go to the same places that had inspired me during the daylight hours. The more abandoned the better.

Right about this time, my old emotional ghosts were taking their toll. A ten-year relationship that began in high school had exploded in a hellacious fiery blaze and left another decade of scar tissue. I lost my father. A new life in California was thwarted when my mom got cancer and I moved back home. I lost her too. I had relationships that went nowhere, with the current one in shambles. I was in massive debt from Art School. My career didn’t go as planned. And I was only now coming to terms with the weight of all this baggage.

But the cold New Year’s Eve night in 2007 snapped me out of my daze. I remembered how creativity would often pull me out of my depression. Determined to not let my anger ruin me, I chose the Solvay plant for my first attempt at real light painting. Years ago, I had explored the place with my Art School buddies back when it was an active recycling facility. We’d hop the fence, wander around all the buildings, admire their history, and inevitably get chased out.

Back on the other side of the fence—with that sense of thrill at the edges of my memory—I stared down the pile of gear and said to myself, fuck it, let’s go.

Up and over, I tried so hard to mind the barbed wire, but in one last effort to keep me honest, the wire ripped the crotch of my jeans and grazed my skin enough to draw blood. My adrenaline was on overdrive, and I didn’t even notice until I got home.

I gathered my gear and scurried across a fairly wide open field to get out of plain sight. I ran like someone was chasing me until I reached the mammoth compound. Now what? What building do I go in? With like ten to choose from, I frantically scanned the big hulking piles of rotting wood and rusting metal. Why not the biggest one?! Out of breath from the run and the cold, in a panic, I searched for a way in. There it was. A wide open, unlocked door! Is it a trap? 

I entered gasping for air, the cold had zapped all I had. The warehouse was pitch dark and all I had was just a tiny flashlight to lead the way. Am I safe? Are there others inside with me? Random animals?

I could see ruins of windows and pipes and pools that looked like mini ice rinks with metal protruding from them like something had exploded inside and frozen over. The winter wind played tricks on my mind; every clanking pipe felt like something was about to rush me. I carried on despite every hair on my neck telling me to get the hell out of there.

I mustered enough courage to set up right next to the door. At least I could hear intruders and make a quick getaway. I put down my backpack, extended my tripod, and fumbled for way too long trying to attach the camera with my frozen fingers. My mind was racing. I could barely concentrate on what I was supposed to do next. How do I even focus in this blackness? My tutorials started to materialize back into memory. I set the focus to infinity, opened my shutter, and turned on my Vivitar. With a yellow filter tucked inside the plastic adaptor, I gave it my all. In other words—as any noob does—spray and pray.

I popped the yellow flash at the corner of the building. I guessed at the exposure time, closed the shutter on my camera, and held my breath for the results to appear on my LCD screen.

The image blew me away. Sure it was amateur, but the light made the dark come to life! It made the history glow. And it was all under my control. It was surreal! I took dozens of shots all over the inside of that building. While I physically felt frozen, all of my troubles melted away once I focused on the here and now. I felt alive!

At this point, I knew that I needed to keep this momentum going. It was the best “free” therapy one could ask for: the adrenaline mixed with the act of transforming the darkness into light—it was a force that was honestly life-saving for me.

I spent the following year or two battling my demons. For better or worse, though, I always came back to night photography and light painting as a source of therapy. I experimented on my own and with various friends I met through Flickr. My adventures took me from northern Wisconsin down to Chicago and east to Gary and Detroit.

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I quickly built up my portfolio and, with a wealth of experience under my belt, I naturally grew into the role of teacher and mentor to others. This includes Katie, my now wife and business partner (sometimes, somewhat literally, in crime). We met in mid-2009, and on one of our first few dates, I took her to a local train yard (the thrill of trespassing can be very romantic!) and showed her the ropes. She was a natural from day one.

The lesson here is painfully clear. Trust that art is therapy. Trust that you can stare your fear in the face (or on the other side of that barbed wire fence). Trust yourself. And trust the process. As a beginner, don’t get dragged down by the endless possibilities of gear, tools, computer programs, or even YouTube tutorials. Just get the fuck out there and do the thing. Marvel at the results, as amateur as they might be. YOU created it. Pat yourself on the back, but then keep going.

Truth be told, I’ve replaced all of this gear with a single Protomachines Flashlight (again, thank you LED). But before that, I literally carried all of this with me (and more!!) on my light-painting trips. From upper left and clockwise:

1. DIY gel-covers to place over flashlights, made out of PVC pipe.

2. Epic collection of soft theater gels and hard plastic filters specific for Vivitar.

3. Vivitar 285HV

4. The giant red circular gel went over my big, bulky “deer spotter/buck light” (not pictured) that measured at 3 million candle power (the grandfather of lumens!). I would use it to light lofty warehouses and theaters. We’ve come a long way; thank you LED!

5. Plastic ziplock baggie that contained every color in the rainbow. Not necessarily user-friendly. Many a gel has been lost to the winds of the prairies and buried in the rubble of factories all over country.

6. Light wands, not just for raves anymore! These came in handy for tight spaces like the insides of ancient television sets and old Chevy truck grills.

7. Back in those days, you could never have too many flashlights for white fills.

8. Vivitar adaptor for 283 with orange filter.

9. Vivitar 283, always have a backup!

Your turn! Do you have a hobby or even livelihood right now that you once completely sucked at? Or is there something you won’t try because you’re afraid of being terrible at it? Tell me all about it! Better yet, pass this along to a friend who could use a nudge in the go on get it direction.

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Before you go, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze. And maybe exit through the gift shop. Or read the next adventure…everyone’s favorite: CAR TROUBLE!

Shit.

How fast were you driving?

Like five over!

30 minutes ago

We stand at the crest of a gigantic sand pit to admire the prairie farmhouse one last time. We rarely return to the locations we photograph, so it’s typical to bid a fond farewell to these distant places who become close companions. Over the course of just a few hours, we become fairly intimate.

Penetrating crevices that haven’t been filled in decades, the floors tremble and buckle against the weight of unfamiliar footsteps. Our hushed conversation dances upon deafened silence like sweet nothings—an unintelligible language to a home that hasn’t housed a living soul the last one parted for greener pastures. Our breath warms the desiccated viscera, shriveled by the wind chill. Invaders break through windows and doors—fallen soldiers who no longer stand guard between comfort and misery.

We are uninvited guests, but maybe the light we bring to the party is welcome respite from the lonely darkness. A generous dish of neon-orange Buffalo Chicken Dip for the soul-starved.

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What makes this house particularly unique—and, therefore, a must for our photography catalog—is that she sits atop a man-made hill. How she arrived there is not unlike waking up to find that the only reason you’re suddenly tall is because a missile split the earth where you stand. 

For those unfamiliar, fracking (short for hydraulic fracturing) is a process where highly-specific, uniformly-sized grains of “frac sand” are combined with water, chemicals and high pressure to literally fracture the impermeable rock below and pave the way for that black gold to gush to the surface for collection. Up to this point, this particular region of the upper midwest (second only to Texas in oil production) relied on imported frac sand from other states. But, lo and behold, some geologists figured out that the locally-sourced sand might do the trick after all. Gotta increase those sweet, sweet profit margins; let the Digathon begin! 

So here sits the queen, marooned against a waterless moat. For whatever reason—probably financial—the frac sand miners spared this old pile of regal bones, and carved out a throne so she could survey the damage indefinitely.

A few hours before that

It’s the day after Thanksgiving. After driving for over ten hours straight, we land in Grand Forks, North Dakota, to grab an overpriced hotel room and scarf down our “Cooler Dinner.” (Adjacent to, but not as trendy, as healthy, nor as photogenic as “Girl Dinner.”)

In what felt like moments, we are back out in the black tube of rural roadway heading to our first location on this trip’s agenda. After an hour, we pull up to a lunar landscape—if the moon was coated in vegetation in some alternative reality—and approach the pit. With an unseasonably warm autumn back home, we’re not yet accustomed to the Dakota winds that shave swaths of degrees from the air, dropping the Fahrenheit into single digits. This shoot will have to be quick.

We trek past the smaller mounds of sand and dirt until we reach the old lady, even more majestic than we had imagined. We gear up and hike the entire circumference of the mound to find the upward path of least resistance. From the looks of the crispy plant growth that surrounds the area, the digging stopped awhile back—where “awhile” could’ve been months or years, depending on the drought severity. We determine that there really is no easy way up, so just gotta bite the bullet and climb to the top using our own bare appendages. With high risk comes sweet reward; the view is literally breathtaking. It’s gotta be about twenty degrees colder way up here.

We explore. We note the giant hole in the floor that could’ve been a rare indoor water well. We discuss lighting logistics. Chris slides down the side of the hill to go set up the camera. And from this point on, it’s a combination of:

• Katie: lighting up the first and second floors (trying very hard not to fall into the water well)

• Chris: waiting the two minutes for each long-exposure shot to “cook” (trying very hard not to get frostbite as he takes an iPhone photo of the Canon photo for Katie)

• Katie: waiting for the digital bits make their way from Chris’ phone to hers to survey the results and avoid more arduous “Mount Dakota” climbs than necessary

• Both: enduring a frustrating interchange of phone calls and whisper-shouting into the wind to determine the next move (Walkies—second only to our first First Aid Kit—would be a no brainer, eh?).

The text photos prove much too difficult to assess so I end up repeatedly descending and scaling “Mount Dakota” anyway. My quads the next day, folks, I’m telling you. 

In a battle of Man Vs. Wind, we’re beat from the beginning. We manage to hold out for about an hour-and-a-half and two different angles before Chris’ fingers called it quits. We agree, we got our shots…

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We pack up almost all of our gear*, jump into the van, heat full blast, and head back to the bright lights, big city of Grand Forks.

But lest we forget our little meet-cute with local law enforcement: when 70mph comes to a screeching 55mph halt and Chris is going about 60.

I’ll have you know, Chris hasn’t been pulled over for speeding in about 25 years, so it’s almost like the nervous thrill of a local high school reunion pot luck. You quickly bake up a full batch of “Yes Sirs,” which feel cheesy on your tongue, but perfectly plump as they drift out of your driver’s side window. 

Yes, officer sir, we are clearly from waaaay out of town. Our placement at this very odd location on the U.S. map at about midnight makes for interesting banter with our boy in blue. He takes Chris’ license and registration back to the squad car for careful examination. Time stands still and we tally up how many print sales we’d need to make up for the speeding ticket. Hopefully this one fares better than Hotel Hell where we both got trespassing tickets and the image was a big flop.

The officer returns with a sheet of paper, it’s drumroll of a ripple against the wind escalates the drama.

A warning.

Big sighs pair with a copious amount of “sirs” as we thank the officer and crawl back to the interstate at 49.5mph. So now we’ll have to be extra careful on this trip because we’ve clearly been flagged.

*Our fond farewell to the old hill house turned out to be a “later gator.” Upon our return to the overpriced hotel—pulled by the promise of a late-night, Lactose-Free Mild Cheddar snack—Chris discovers he’d left behind his knife, handed down to him from his late father. We return the following morning to locate it amongst the brush. The house begs us for one last climb, so we capture her basking in the warm sun. In the light of day, she's arguably just as magnificent as the night before.

We’ll leave you with a tour of her palace…

If you enjoyed this little adventure of ours, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze before you go. And maybe exit through the gift shop.

Or, if you’re not ready to go back to work just yet, why not read another one? This one takes you allllllll the way back to our origin story. There weren’t any radioactive spiders, but there was a shitty ex-girlfriend involved. Classic amiright?

start somewhere. keep going.

When the best part is the ‘awry’.

A friend of ours passed along some photos of a gorgeous but abandoned homestead somewhere in central Illinois. It’s true location: a complete mystery. And now we know why. As I mentioned in our last episode, “No Trespassing”, we creep around a gray area when it comes to this line of work.

This home certainly plunged us into the darker shades of gray.

But I’ll get to that later.

This friend of ours who lives in the region, generously took the time to drive around the general area to find it for us. (editor’s note to friend: You rock!) He shared the location, and we gratefully filed the gem away in our mental Rolodex for the next clear full moon night. With an 8-hour round trip, there simply would be no room for error. Months came, months went. A thick, winter cloud-blanket foiled our plans every time.

Is it still scenery if it’s not scenic?

A full moon arrives in the gray doldrums of early March. All weather apps confidently declare that—despite the lack of sun all day—clouds will clear in central Illinois at about 9pm. It feels a little risky, but we pack up the gear and head south with a smidge of light left in the day.

So, obviously, Chris and I travel a lot. For shoot locations, for art shows, sometimes just for nothing, but the thing is, we don’t live in California. The view outside our windows doesn’t typically look like this:

Or this.

And certainly not this.

In fact, if you’ve ever driven any of the half dozen interstates through the flat open farmland of central midwest, you know that it’s no picnic scenery-wise. I-39 is particularly mind-numbing. The most exciting part is when a blue service sign indicates you can finally pee at Exit 82. You might inquire: how is this in any way fun, and how do you not fall asleep at the wheel?

The scintillating diesel that fuels this partnership? Conversation. To be fair, it’s mostly me bringing up odd observations—while Chris does his best to follow my random threads—which always begin with a warning of sorts: “Isn’t it weird that…” to which Chris (knowing me for nearly 15 years now) always responds, “Oh no.”

On this particular journey through Illinois, we pass a prison, which—after a quick web search—sparks a rousing discussion about the cost per incarcerated individual and the travesties of the for-profit prison industry:

If a private prison can “mark up” the cost of caring for an incarcerated individual by $50 per day, that means their prison can theoretically earn $50,000 per day on a prison that houses 1,000 inmates. If they can land another contract with the government to build a prison in the neighboring state, they could start earning an additional $50,000 per day by maxing out that prison. By going public, they can see a sudden influx of money that would allow them to build that second prison.1

We switch gears and Chris enlightens me about the Goo Goo Dolls feud with Warner Brothers. I dig deep and walk Chris through how it’s strange that some childhood memories feel longer ago than others despite their proximal occurrence. We ponder when Genesis was in their Prog-iest phase. We happen upon a large-ish city in central Illinois that we had never heard of. We get far too excited about our dinner which consists of gas station coffee and salt & vinegar chips. And we discuss the Amish or Mennonite teens at said gas station who purchase Subway and soda…getting freaky for Rumspringa perhaps?

In context, when you’re staring down a four-hour road trip through absolute darkness, you have to ring your mind’s sponge and see what drips out.

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To shoot or not to shoot?

We’re three hours into our venture south. 9pm approaches but our upward glance to the sky signals the bad news: these clouds are going nowhere, man. We hang our heads low when our not-so-trusty weather app confirms our fear: no clearance until maybe 3am. We’re no strangers to succumbing to a failed attempt at a shoot. Once, we tried a full moon adventure to an abandoned church in up-nort-der Wisconsin, also about four hours away from home. With but an hour left in the journey, once we noticed thick clouds barreling in from the west, we reluctantly turned back home.

Well, here we are again, already three hours into this attempt, the moon is bundled up tight in a sweater of weather. We had already paid our weight in Illinois tolls though, so we decide to press onward. At least we’d see the place…make sure it hadn’t been destroyed by the tornado that ravaged the vicinity a little over a week prior (yes in February!)

We announce our arrival to the entire tri-county area by way of the gravel churning beneath our tires. The old house materializes from the ether, stoic and substantial.

We park, approach, and respectfully take a tour. We marvel at the Italianate-style architecture, the attention to detail that certainly made this home a mansion in its time. We glance at the sky one last time—the moon just a fuzzy glob of ash nestled deep behind a wall of concrete. Oh well, let’s see what happens.

Chris takes some quick exposures for good measure and you can see that (for those photogs playing at home) even at a brief 13 seconds at 10,000 ISO, the clouds act like “nature’s soft box.” In the shot, the landscape looks like broad daylight. Yes this is what night would look like if we had DSLR cameras for eyeballs:

So, in order to strike a delicate balance between enough light to see the house with enough dark to show that it’s night, Chris pulls up on his usual F-stop and tells me I only have one hundred and ten seconds to run around inside with my colored flashlight.

Less than two minutes. So many windows, so little time.

Plus there is the issue of the banister-less staircase that scares me half to death, quite literally, because one false step would send me one story down to my demise. All for what, I assumed, would be a throwaway shot. But I put on my game face and we’re off.

After the first shot or two, and frustration that the house looked so flat without the moonlight, I get an idea. We reposition to get a more dynamic angle, and I run back into the house. I light up every room as quickly as possible, with most of my concentration focused on not falling over the flight of stairs. Then, on my way out of the house, I switch my flash from blue to white, and I bathe the whole front of the house and yard in light where the moon would’ve been.

“Time!” Chris shouts. I run to the camera, huffing away.

Yes, that’s it! Typically, when you help a structure along with a flashlight the result is a flat, unnatural look, which is why we rely so heavily on the full moon. But this time, because of the angle adjustment, the architecture, the internal light, and something about the napalm glow in the distance, everything falls together in photographic matrimony.

The clouds, the long drive, I-39, all worth it. It’s about the journey, not the destination.

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We swap colors, shoot another half dozen attempts, and finally get it to where we want. Onto the rest of the house and some other ideas. We take a little more time to open our eyes and really look around.

Once was home.

The views are breathtaking even at this late hour. We’re overcome with a sort of stratospheric, expansive awe, yet also anxiously confined by the decay that might just take us down with it. And what about the family who lived in this home so long ago? Which neighbors did they gossip about? Did they have all-consuming political opinions? Was there any time for R&R or were farm and household tasks too time-consuming? Where did the children and the children of their children go? Why did this home perish into these sad, beautiful bones? If these walls could talk.

After about an hour and a half, we say goodnight to the Italian beauty and hop back in the van—back into the dark tube of Illinois tollway and the thrilling conversations that try to nudge our exhausted minds awake. Four hours to go, minus one hour of time lost to the archaic Daylight Saving system that causes a 24% increase in heart attacks.2 Of course, the clouds do indeed evaporate as we drive north, leaving a beautiful smear of stars in their wake.

At 4am we arrive home to hungry cats and comforting pillows.

Oh yeah the lawyer.

Back during the height of the pandemic—when, admittedly, no one was at their best—we were contacted by someone who saw this artwork on Facebook, claimed it was a family farmhouse, wanted to discuss the history with us, and get a print of the work. We responded with upbeat curiosity. But the email exchange got ugly quick.

Accusations of stealing, telling us that they have copies of everything we’ve ever posted, and threats of getting their attorney involved. Oh and an expectation that three quarters of all the proceeds from any sales would be forwarded to them immediately. It was a full-blown shake down!

We responded with an apology, that we did not see a “No Trespassing” sign on the property (truth), that we removed the image from our website and social media, and that we would forward this email to our lawyer in regards to the “proceeds.” More livid threats hurled back at us, so we left it at that and contacted a lawyer who told us that it’s very difficult to sue for royalties for subject matter that is visible to the public (think about the loosey goosey interpretations of law around selling photographs of landmarks, buildings, and other property—obviously private, but in the public eye).

After this exchange nearly gave my typically-rule-abiding-self a heart attack, I went on a deep dive on copyright and property law. A few interesting nuggets:

• According to The Copyright Zone: “Buildings created on or after December 1, 1990 are protected by copyright…. The copyright in an architectural work does not include the right to prevent others from making and distributing photos of the constructed building, if the building is located in a public place or is visible from a public place.”

• Section 735 ILCS 5/15-1200.5 “‘Abandoned residential property’ means residential real estate that:

  (a) either:

  (1) is not occupied by any mortgagor or lawful occupant as a principal residence; or

  (2) contains an incomplete structure if the real estate is zoned for residential development, where the structure is empty or otherwise uninhabited and is in need of maintenance, repair, or securing…”

• The Illinois 310 ILCS 50 Abandoned Housing Rehabilitation Act states that “‘Nuisance’” means any property which because of its physical condition or use is a public nuisance, or any property which constitutes a blight on the surrounding area, or any property which is not fit for human habitation under the applicable fire, building and housing codes.”

• According to 735 ILCS 5/15-1108: “maintaining and securing abandoned properties stabilizes property values and the tax base, decreases crime, reduces the risk of foreclosure for nearby properties, thus reducing costs for local governments and making a substantial contribution to the operation and maintenance of the courts of this State by reducing the volume of matters which burden the court system in this State.”

In other words, if you “own” abandoned property in Illinois, you yourself run into some legal gray areas. If someone has a problem with it, you might be forced to demolish the property if you don’t have the means to rehabilitate.

Three years later, where do we stand?

Recently, we put this artwork back up on our portfolio, especially after we noted this farm house is definitely all over the internet. And to those who feel like we are disrespecting private property, I ask you to consider this:

Why is it disrespectful to explore a place that feels magical and unique, and to give it new life through an artistic lens so other people can appreciate beauty in the decay?

Why is it not, by comparison, disrespectful to let your own property rot away into a pile of wood, paint, and plaster, some of which might, say, leach into the water table and poison the wildlife in the area?

Thoughts?

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Before you go, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze. And maybe exit through the gift shop. But why stop reading now?! We’ve got another adventure for you, locked and loaded. And the cops were there this time…

how fast were you going?

Credits:

Thanks again to our location-seeking friend for your dedicated search way back then! (Who shall NOW remain nameless to protect the innocent!)

Check out the original photographer who inspired this trek! Forgottonia Photography has lots more photographs of this house and other gems throughout Illinois.

And tunes. The road needs a soundtrack.

Music always accompanies our travels into Nowheresville. So, why shouldn’t we create playlists based on our journeys? Our very first one, “Night in the Life,” is not to be missed! Hand-selected tracks that weave ever-so-delicately throughout our venture south of the [Wisconsin] border.

Just press play.

In the meantime, enjoy our breakdown of another Flash Nites Hot Topic that addresses some of the legalities (or lack thereof ) around what we do for a living…

Silence is actually a sweet comfort when it’s almost midnight and you’re supposed to be all alone in the middle of nowhere. So when the soft rolling crunch of four wheels on gravel enters the scene, the adrenaline rush to your system packs a jolt that could wake the deadest of the dead.

Trepidatiously, you watch as headlights veer right and slice the thick darkness in half. Like a frightened rabbit, you revert back to your animal instincts. Frozen in place, eyes wide, ears perked, fur standing on end.

Because the fact that the car turned right means one thing and one thing only:

They’re here.

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Like a criminal, I raise my hands up to the spotlights that coat every square inch of what we’re up to. I wave a hand side-to-side to indicate the Universal Sign of Truce. As the crisp prairie wind toys with my hair, I feel so free out here, and yet so very captured. Chris and I stand there for what feels like hours in the dramatic pause of the twin beams.

But then the car unexpectedly twists to the left in a U-turn and barrels back toward the main road, away from our shooting spot. On the way out, it stops momentarily in front of the infamous partially-constructed (or partially-deconstructed?) abandoned house at the corner. And then it turns right—the opposite direction from which it arrived.

Chris and I trade hushed interrogation: Wait, they had to have seen us, right? I was waving, I was right there! How did they know we were out here? Did we trigger a trail cam? Where are they headed now? Are they collecting their burly farmer posse to come back and torture us with rusty pruning shears??!

After folks ask us if our work is Photoshopped, the second most common question we get is this:

“Do you get permission to go inside?”

To which I initially respond, “Ummm...who’s asking?”

In all seriousness, we know exactly what everyone else wants to know, and it’s a two-part inquisition to suss out if our work is laced with wrong:

Qa. “Do you trespass?” 

Qb. “Do you break and enter?” 

Well, judge, we’re here to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Aa. Sort of. Maybe. Yes. Sorry, we didn’t see the sign posted, we apologize, Mr. Officer. Which is a funny thing to try to explain to your future employer after they run your background check.

Ab. Absolutely not-ish. Breaking and entering is at most a felony and at least a very rude thing to do. To be fair, every place we shoot is divine, sacred, holey, get it? These buildings have been legally abandoned, according to most state laws, for the better part of the last century. And due to the structural decline, there are plenty of openings to slip inside which makes the “B” in B&E unnecessary. (Ok, like 99.9% of the time. But that .1% is a story for another day and historically justifiable.) With that said, the “breaking” part isn’t always required to be convicted of said crime, so the whole thing is a gamble, and we don’t condone our actions.

But here’s the thing….

If this country is built on anything, it’s not really so much freedom, but more so ownership of property. From the day those pioneers and pilgrims stepped foot on this land, they swaggered around like they owned the place—despite up to 112 million indigenous folks already living here—throwing a white picket fence around every amber acre of all the waves of grain.

Did you know that over 95% of Texas is privately owned compared to 60.2% of the United States?

The American Dream is on lock, even when it’s rotting away, literally getting swallowed up by the earth from which it came.

It all comes down to this: Chris and I have this passion for crafting a hunk of decay into something worthy of attention, worthy of an audience (that’s you!). On the flip side, typically these places are abandoned for the very opposite reason: Someone made the decision that these places are no longer worthy of their attention (aka: bank account) and jumped ship, but of course retain their right to horde the land and everything on it because that’s what we do here in the good ol’ You’ss of Ass.

When Chris and I stumble upon a place that used to be someone’s prized possession—used to be someone’s American Dream—how can we not give her one last go at magnificence? One last chance to feel alive and breathtaking and beautiful? One final spin in her old rags. When someone sees an abandoned thing, their initial reaction is: “ugh, well that’s sad” — our mission is to brighten up the place and give it USE again.

And yes, Art = Useful.

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So—even despite signage occasionally telling us to keep out—we’ll climb in.

If someone hints to us that there’s a secret entry, we’ll search through the weeds for 45 minutes, we’ll walk the 3-miler unpaved road, we’ll get down on our bellies, shove all our equipment through the shoulder-width hole, and shimmy on in there, coated in all kinds of mud, grime, and animal excrement.

But yeah, when property owners show up, we’ve got some ‘splainin to do. And to be honest—aside from a tiny handful of times—we’re usually met with a bewildered “oooookkaaaay?” They leave, and we carry on to complete the mission.

We also have our limits though. Lately, America has become a lot more aggressively protective and trigger-happy. While we never burn or ruin or tag or steal (“take only photographs, leave only footprints,” as the old oath goes), we respectfully tread into a very gray area amongst the broad stripes and bright stars. So we pick our battles more wisely these days. If property is absolutely coated in aggressive signage—especially if those signs are tacked to the actual abandoned structure itself—we’ll leave it alone.

For example, here’s a sign that helped us immediately decide that the really cool old house was actually not worth the shoddy dismemberment via rusty pruning shears: 

In any case, there may or may not have been signage somewhere in the vicinity of the old busted up St. John’s Lutheran church in Arena, North Dakota — est. 1906, abnd. 1996 — but this place is such a hot spot for Dakota ghost town explorers, it has its own Wikipedia page. Prior to the vehicular meet-cute, we would’ve rated this location PG*.

Soothing video footage of the church during our daytime scout session (also on youtube):

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So after that mysterious car U-turns and leaves us there to figure out our next move, the once comfy quiet shifts to the kind of horror show silence that gives the nerves ample opportunity to play tricks on your adrenaline-soaked amygdala. You know, the pregnant pause before the jump scare. So before our fear gets the best of us, we have to decide whether or not to continue the mission. We page through the case of Risk v. Reward: Did we get the shot yet? Are we blessed with ideal sky conditions? Did we spend way too much gas to get here? Is the location worth it? Could we try again another time?

We look up and the clouds are screaming in, which makes the decision an easy one: grab a couple more quick shots and bounce. With more time and less jitters, we would’ve taken an array of angles and colors of this beauty, made sure the lighting was perfect, etc. But sometimes you get what you got, and you move onto the next one: another risk to fuel the reward that puts interesting art into the world.

Now it’s your turn!

1. Do you own a percentage of Texas private property?

2. What’s the stupidest gray-area law you’ve bended?

3. What’s the best excuse you’ve drummed up to sweet talk authority into a warning?

Leave a comment

Before you go, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze. And maybe exit through the gift shop.

OR if you just can’t get enough, read about our OTHER brush with legal trouble:

You want how much of our profits?

*Our informal rating system:

• G - Permission granted with minimal opportunities to be maimed

• PG - No permission granted, risk of injury is slightly more obvious 

• PG-13 - No permission granted, potential to break a limb is definitely possible

• R - No permission granted, climbing required, potential to fall to death is high

• X - B&E, do not recommend unless the City’s Finest shrugs and looks away

A few small portions of this essay originally appeared in a piece we wrote for The Sirens Call, Summer 2023, Issue 62.

Grab some milk and cookies, have I got a story for you.

Five years ago

It’s the fall of 2017. We’re on a big road trip to shoot various abandoned locations throughout the South Dakota area. This is our first tête-à-tête with the Death House. Luckily, we got out with only wounds to our pride. Upon arrival, the sky was a putrid slate gray and winds gusted to about 50mph, as demonstrated in this video where I thought I was speaking plenty loud enough.

Winds at this level meant our camera tripod wouldn’t remain still enough to shoot an exposure time of more than a few seconds (we need at least two minutes). All we could manage was a quick snap with a bare flashlight, as seen here:

Oh how I wish that arrow was actually there by that ominous plank of wood because it would’ve been our Red Level Warning omen to stay far, far way from this place.

Two years later

On another photography trip to the Dakotas, we return to the scene of the crime yet to be committed. The skies above Manchester are a gorgeous gradient of midnight-meets-cerulean with a low swath of creamy rose-gold cuddled close to the horizon, plus just an obnoxious number of stars. No wind. Full moon. Perfection. Let’s go.

Usually when we’re at a site, we spend about three hours to shoot different angles and try out different colors. I checked the tape: that night we took five shots in one color. Unheard of. Even when we’ve run through the entirety of Mr. Roy G. Biv’s closet of technicolor dream coats, Chris will ask me if we’ve tried some outrageously rare one like Puce.

We take just five shots because after I light up the house for the fifth time, on my way back down the porch, the plank of wood—yes, the very same plank that Red Arrow tried to warn me about—attacks my boot with its shimmery frosty top layer. I slip, my feet go forward, my body goes backward, and I slam the back of my head on the plank which I’m sure is laughing maniacally at my expense. To say the least, I was shook. Sure there were holes in the second story that I could’ve fallen through, but this is my precious brain we’re talking about. We’re done here.

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One year later

And we’re back! Technically we’re headed to Fargo, North Dakota, but we need another location for the week, so we scout the area on our way up. It’s broad daylight. No need to put our lives at risk. But Chris wants to revisit the Manchester Death House because it’s Halloween and of course.

I’m hanging out by the car, snappin’ B-roll for social and suddenly I hear a high-pitched but man-sounding yelp and the gulunk of boots hitting old rotten wood and suddenly Chris is galloping out of the house—spooked by a raccoon of all things—onto the treacherous porch, onto the evil wooden plank, and yep, down he goes. He slices his hand right open on a rusty nail poking out from god knows where. It’s like we’re on a dark, slapstick sitcom and someone out there is havin’ a real chuckle. The plank is, that fiend.

So Chris’ hand is gushing blood and we’re trying to find washcloths in our luggage, because, no Mr. Military Guy with the Epic Biceps, we do NOT have any first aid supplies. Chris plays it off like he’s going to be ok, so I drive to another old house a couple miles away to snap some more B-roll. I circle back to Chris in the van and every inch of the washcloth is soaked with blood. Neat. I quick Google search and, as it turns out, there’s an ER clinic fifteen minutes away in De Smet, once home to Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I’m sure her father Charles would’ve known exactly what to do about that nefarious wooden plank.

Now, if you did your math, 2 + 1 = 3 + 2017 plus Halloween = October 31, 2020. Covid. So much Covid. Chris masks up and heads into the belly of the beast: a small rural clinic that caters to sick and injured farmers where they tell him he’s lucky he didn’t slice right through his important wrist artery area because they were running low on blood due to the raging pandemic.

No, instead of bleeding out, Chris won the prestigious second prize of seven lucky stitches to his throbbing hand. (A quick fast-forward, he also won a bonus door prize of Covid a few days later. Coincidence? No. The Manchester Death House is to blame.)

By the way, I don’t know if this is pertinent information, but we didn’t purchase a first aid kit until two years later after Chris was stung by a wasp in our art booth and we thought: yeah maybe first aid would be a good idea in our line of work.

So now we are loaded up to the crumbly open rafters with all the standard first aid supplies, plus enter/exit wound chest seals, rolled gauze that comes out of a hole so the rest stays sterile, and the coveted Combat-Application-Tourniquet in Rescue Orange. (And don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere near the Death House this coming weekend.)

Speaking of which…

Hey, you know who else could use a first aid kit? The Arts.

I need to take advantage of this perfect segue because the past three years have been one hell of a wild roller coaster that included one financial up but mostly many financial downs (which, in theory, you’d think would make for a pretty neat roller coaster idea but not in the real world, Mr. R.C. Tycoon). I don’t know who to blame. Is it inflation and interest rates? Is it egg prices? Is it that low-to-middle-class Americans, who can’t even buy a house anymore, have to put art patronage last on their budget? Is it ChatGPT? It’s A.I., isn’t it?

With all that said, I just spent about two and a half days (I lied, three) writing the most epic Think Piece trying to convince the reader—but mostly myself—that maybe A.I. isn’t the death of art. Maybe everyone is making too big of a deal about it because I found a factoid where—upon seeing his first Daguerreotype photograph in 1939—French painter Paul Delaroche was quoted as saying, “From today, painting is dead!” Painting, of course, never died at all. It just took a wild turn when people decided to paint melting clocks instead of pastoral landscapes. So why can’t Human Art get more interesting than A.I. Art?

You know what also got much more interesting? Scraping that entire 2500-word think piece I wrote over three days to write about this adventure instead. I did it in about two hours with the majority of that time spent searching for the bloody receipts of Death House and it was way more fun. 

The only way we artists are ever gonna beat the bots and the busted up economy is to have a good time on the roller coaster, even when it keeps going down and like way too many times. Because, sure, I was easily and quickly able to prompt Midjourney to create this hauntingly beautiful Moonlit Night landscape of an abandoned house in rural North Dakota, Blue windows, photo taken by Hasselblad, professional lighting, 50mm, 80mm, 100m --ar 3:2 --v 4…

…But it didn’t get me any cool f-actual stories about attempted murder by wooden plank, blood soaked prairie dirt, and reading my Tarot cards in the front seat of our van while waiting in the De Smet ER parking lot while my husband gets stitched up and maybe contracts Covid. Ok ok, I could’ve prompted ChatGPT to graverob the internet and Frankenstein something together. But I don’t need to. I’ve got the real deal inside my still-in-tact brain bucket.

And just you wait ‘til I get to this story:

So welcome!

The theme: Not your normal night.

The mission: Rescue art.

The goal: Keep you entertained as best we can.

So on that note, are you thirsty for more? We’ve got another one for you…

Let's talk about trespassing