As I have been rebuilding my website I sometimes stumble across an older article that hits hard with a feeling. It’s like a trip down memory lane, and just like any trip some sections of road are smooth as glass, and others are a bit rougher.
Just yesterday I had a social media post about how I struggled with identity after my injury took photography away from me.
Sometimes Photographers Get Lost
As I sat down at my desk this morning, first cup of coffee in hand, I headed to my website looking for one thing, finding another. In a list of pages and posts, one title stood out. Four words. Four simple words. But those four words? Yeah, they hit like a hammer.
Sometimes Photographers Get Lost.
It was an article I wrote back in 2014 about a brief experience with the photographers equivalent of writer’s block. I got past it, made an image, seen here at the top of the page, and I was on my way.
As I take my first sip of hot coffee, that nectar of the gods that fuels my day, the dog settles in at my feet and begins to snore, and Bob Seger plays on Pandora — “You’ll Accomp’ny Me”.
Bob was really speaking to his wife, but in that moment Bob was speaking to me. Not in the love he clearly felt for his wife.
But in the invitation to go on a journey through life’s challenges.
Healing, Hope, and the Stories Behind the Photos
After surgery I had plenty of time to think. Weeks flat on my back, watching TV with mirrored glasses my wife bought me, reading books on my Kindle, and surfing on my iPad.
As I rested and recovered I began to think about my future and what it might look like. I started looking at my photos again — wondering if it was possible I could be that guy again. Could I be a photographer? As I grappled (dare I say hoped) with this question, I spent more and more time looking at my images and writing their stories.
Writing became my new release. And writing the stories behind the photos? That made me a photographer again. Hundreds of pages of thoughts, from feelings to settings. Word docs, Apple Notes, Evernote, OneNote — all littered with fragments of my heart.
Photography had always been my way of expressing myself, arranging the day and the world in ways that made sense, ways that brought me peace. I was all about calmness, about tranquility. “Serenity now!” as Frank Costanza would often scream.
It’s People that get Lost
Wow. I realize then that I was wrong all those years ago. It’s people that get lost.
And I realized then that I was still a photographer.
For a long time I identified as a photographer. That wasn’t my job, nor was it how I earned a living. But it was how I identified myself.
Losing and Finding Myself
When I first started experiencing mobility issues and falls, my wife and I decided to pause the photography. Walking the rocky Rhode Island coast alone in the dark seemed like a risky move, given my new habit of falling and hurting myself. I had already scheduled an appointment with my doctor, and I thought it was only a slight pause. I had no idea this was only the beginning of a journey that would last six years before finally getting an accurate diagnosis — and more importantly a surgical intervention to get me back on my feet, literally.
During that time I went from introducing myself as a photographer, to saying I used to be a good photographer, to finally just Mike. I had a name, but I no longer knew who I was.
Back where I belong—camera in hand, chasing light along the Rhode Island coast.
Printing Again, But Differently This Time
As I spent more time sitting up, I repaired my trusty Epson SureColor P800. Boxes of fine art paper and spare ink were carried up from the basement to my office. I began printing again.
Ten years ago, a print needed to be large. Massive pieces of paper and sheets of aluminum were my favorite. Nothing better than big and bold. That “wow” factor drove me wild, filled me with excitement. “Look at what I created! Isn’t that something?”
But my how times have changed. Today I have a much greater appreciation for the little things. Not just in life, but in print size. A pretty flower in the yard. A gentle breeze. A good cup of coffee and a quiet moment.
As the prints roll out of my printer, I’m no longer chasing “wow.” I love the little prints — something I can pick up and hold in my hand. The weight and texture of archival paper. A piece of paper I can fall into, getting lost in the details and textures. Traveling to another place and time in my mind. A mindful experience in print.
Resurrecting the workhorse—my Epson SureColor P800 coming back to life with a little TLC.
Little Landscapes, Big Escapes
That love of the small led me to what I now call my “Little Landscapes” — 4×6″ prints mounted in little shadowboxes. They live on my desk like pocket-sized windows, tiny escapes and mini-vacations that I can take without leaving my chair.
On a tough day, I’ll pick one up, hold it in my hands, and let myself step into that place for just a moment. A salty breeze, a late-day glow, a quiet shoreline — all right there in the palm of my hand. It’s a practice in mindfulness that helps me reset, breathe, and keep moving forward.
I keep a few nearby and rotate them every couple of weeks. Just like swapping seasons or moods, each new image shifts the light in my day. They remind me that sometimes the smallest pieces of art can hold the biggest peace.
Little Landscapes. Small 4×6 Rhode Island landscape print mounted in a shadowbox, displayed on a desk
From Stories to Books
All those stories I poured out during recovery — the notes scattered across Word docs, Apple Notes, Evernote, and OneNote — they didn’t disappear. They became something.
I picked my 49 favorites and turned them into a book called Through My Eyes. Why 49, you ask? Apparently, during recovery I lost the ability to count to 50.
The rest? Many of them have found their home in my upcoming book Hope — the story of my life with a camera, and the healing power of both photography and perseverance. It’s a book about finding light when the path feels darkest.
Those stories — just like my prints — are pieces of me, offered in the hope that they bring you a moment of connection, calm, or even courage.
Holding my first book, “Through My Eyes”—49 stories and photographs of hope and healing.
Finding Beauty in the Small Things
And as I sit here today, surrounded by these small, carefully crafted pieces of Rhode Island fine art photography, I realize that this is who I am. Not who I used to be. Not someone lost. But a photographer who found his way back — one print, one story, one quiet moment at a time.
Hundreds of prints, some mounted, some matted, others left bare, surround me now.
Fresh from the printer—fine art photography prints rolling out with vibrant color and detail.
Landscape Gallery
Wander Through Quiet Horizons
Seascape Gallery
Dive Into the Seascape Pool
Still Life Gallery
Bite Into the Beauty
Icons Life Gallery
Icons & Oddities
Night Gallery
Wander Around in the Dark
Your Journey Awaits
I’ve wandered the shorelines, captured the light, and yes—I drink way too much coffee. Let me help you create your story.
