T.E. Hulme wrote that “Old houses were scaffolding once, and workmen whistling.” I feel that way about the past in general, our need to embrace it for what it teaches, to cherish the lessons imbued in former lives. This world is defined by how we connect. With our parents. Old trucks. Moments of truth. One another. For me, my connections go straight back to a long line of laborers—farmers, carpenters, men & women who boasted calloused hands and generous hearts. My destiny was to work a camera—making pictures that tell the stories of our lives. That evoke a narrative. That matter. It’s part art, but mostly being able to see and capture hope, laughter, good times and sad--one frame at a time. My maternal grandfather labored until he was 86, walking two miles to and from work each day. He brewed beer in a basement hideaway during Prohibition, taught me how to smoke a corncob pipe when I was 3, capped off every evening with a blackberry brandy milkshake. He died when I was just 12, and while we lived our relationship in real time, I wince to consider there are far too few photographs to document our history together. So I create images, helping others snare something indelible, insurance against this world in a sea of flux. I am as careful and deliberate making pictures of a trout stream as I am the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, shopkeeps from a bygone era, 4-year old cowboys, a little girl in her Communion gown. Moments, memories. The stories of our lives.