Why do humans make art? It serves no utilitarian purpose yet it does have value in our lives. But what forced human beings originally to create art? Is it some glitch in the development of our brain? What is it that sprung out of human evolution that spurred this need to create? Art is not integral for our survival. Art, however, does make our lives worth living. Art embellishes our existence. But we can survive without it. We need to eat to sleep for shit and piss and fuck but we don’t need to make art. Art and its value is completely reliant on how it’s perceived by our brains. I find this whole idea not only intriguing but also confounding. And I say this as an artist; I say this as someone who is driven to create. Even the creation of commercial art (advertising something to sell) is rooted in some deep-seated place in our brain that response to pretty things, colorful things, loud things. I don’t know where this comes from. I don’t know if anyone knows where this comes from. I am not proposing that we shouldn’t make art. Most of my days are filled with thoughts about art (if not straight down right creating.) But why do I do it? Why do we do it? Is there an answer to this question?

I just returned from a short road trip to the desert outside of Tuscon, Arizona. I was working on a long-term project, shooting the mighty saguaro cacti. The early fall days provided great light, and the nights were cool enough that a sleeping bag was welcome. I fell asleep to the sounds of coyotes yipping away in the distance. Not a bad trip at all.

So that is the reason ”why” I took the trip. On the way out and back, I of course shot the obligatory “road trip” photos. Somewhere into hour number 7 of the drive home, I went into deep thought mode. Why did I take these photos of old signs, rest stops, etc? Why? Really. We all do it, to some extent. Is it ruin porn? Is it a trope? Is it a cliche? This subject matter is like photographic catnip. Yet there is no good reason for me to take these photos. No good reason to share them, either. But I’m doing both. Why? Is there poetry in decay? Is there a feeling of superiority of not living in a place like this? Newsflash: I do live in a place like this. I’m a sucker for rust and dirt and sun bleached hues. I admit that. Folks come from far and wide to see and shoot these scenes. I don’t take my proximity for granted. But I really don’t know why I continue to take these kinds of photos.

I rail against the sameness I see on social media. I get frustrated by the perfection of digital image making. I shoot pinhole cameras, or use a busted lens to free myself of the obligation of the perfect, pristine image. And yet… and yet, I use my posh new iPhone to capture the same eye candy that any other novelty seeking photographer would capture. I don’t know why I do it, but I do it. My phone and my hard drive are filled with these kinds of images. I don’t think they’ll ever amount to anything other than taking up digital storage space. But I still take these pictures. I can blame Walker Evans, or William Eggleston for this trend, but I still choose take part. So here I share, guilty as charged. Don’t ask me why.

Postscript: found this great snippet of Henry Wessel Jr. that adds some fuel to my fire…