On Hikes, Art, and That Pesky Thing Called Pricing

This morning, on my forest hike with my bestest buddy, Buddy (yup, his name is Buddy—check out the About page to meet him), I found myself ruminating on the conversations I had at a recent art show.

One of the most common questions?

"How do you make your painterly-looking photography—and why is it priced close to your original paintings?"

Yikes. So much to unpack there.

Many people still equate the value of art with how much time it takes to create. And anything done on a computer? “Cheating.” Apparently, it's easy and fast and practically makes itself. (Insert deep sigh here.)

But here’s the thing:

All of it—paintbrush, camera, tablet, lens, Photoshop, charcoal, gouache, oil, acrylic, your grandma’s potato masher if that’s your thing—these are all just tools. It’s the artist behind them who makes the choices, takes the risks, and pours their heart into the outcome.

I get it. I used to think artists had the easiest job ever.

Nope.

It’s freaking hard.

Even on the days when inspiration is nowhere to be found, you still have to show up. Maybe that means updating your website, cleaning your studio, prepping panels, or…writing that damn blog post you keep putting off. Ahem. Apropos.

Now, about pricing.

When I price a piece—especially a photographic one that people think should somehow be cheaper—I’m not just accounting for the ink, canvas, or wood panel it’s mounted on (though yes, all of that costs real money). I’m also valuing:

• the years of learning, experimenting, and failing

• the late nights, creative blocks, and breakthroughs

• the patience it takes to wait for the bird to turn its head just right in the perfect light—NO, don’t you dare fly away now

• the moments of magic you can’t replicate

• and yes, the commission the gallery will take—if the piece sells

It’s all baked in. The love, the experience, the sweat, the doubt, the joy. That’s what you’re seeing. That’s what you’re taking home.

And let’s not forget:

A piece isn’t more valuable just because it took longer to make.

Sometimes, something just clicks—fast and furious—and you’re left standing there like, “Fricken chicken, where the hell did that come from?” Other times, it’s weeks or months of stop-start-stumble-swear-cry-repeat before it finally lands.

But the end result? It doesn’t know how long it took.

It just is.

And if it speaks to you—really speaks to you—that’s what matters most.

P.S. I know many of you are curious about how I create my painterly-style photography. Don’t worry—I’ll be sharing more about my process in an upcoming post. Stay tuned!