A crooked room, a flame at the edge, a soul insists on burning.” The Slipping of Time (2025) — Oil on canvas by Joey Embers Every day I return.
Some days the brush speaks, spilling color like truth too heavy to hold. Some days it is silence — a chair waiting, a room listening. But I come back, to remind myself I still exist. This painting, The Slipping of Time, is that return made visible. A room that refuses to sit straight. Floorboards stretch too long. A chair leans without rest. Doors open, but tilt away into uncertainty. In the bottom corner, a candle spirals upward. Off-center, low, almost overlooked — but its flame bends everything around it. Walls lean. Shadows curve. Nothing escapes its pull. Beneath the table, a snake glides through the glow -- silent, patient, certain. A hidden force given shape. The cat crouches close, tail twitching, curiosity flickering against caution. Two lives in tension, waiting to see who will move first. Above, a bird perches inside on the crown molding. Impossible, yet exact. Silent, still, unblinking. A witness that does not belong, yet refuses to leave. These figures are not decoration. They are presences: fire, danger, witness, curiosity. They live in the same crooked space I do. When I paint, I refuse to straighten the lines. I refuse to fix the distortions. I let them exist. I let the silence, the tension, the stubborn flame at the margin all find their place on the canvas. Because this is the truth of how it feels to move through time, through work, through life itself: Not square. Not steady. Tilted, alive, unsettled. I hang my soul on the wall every day. This is not collapse. This is not ruin. This is witness. Stand here with me. Let the crooked room settle around you. And you may feel it too — the flame at the edge of yourself, the one that insists on burning, no matter what tilts around it.
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 A personal reflection on creativity, infrastructure, and the human code beneath the systems.How TechMentor, IT strategy, and creative practice all collide
In August, I return to Redmond for my third year at TechMentor @ Microsoft HQ. For some, it’s just another conference. For me, it’s a crucible. A recalibration. A gathering of minds where the fog lifts, and the infrastructure behind everything we rely on daily becomes just a little more human. TechMentor isn’t hype. It’s hands-on. It’s wisdom forged in production environments, in late-night fire drills, in scripts that failed and policies that saved the day. The speakers don’t preach—they equip. They’ve been where I’ve been. They speak code, scars, strategy—and clarity. Every year I come back more focused, more capable—and more curious. Where Logic Meets Linework There’s a myth that logic and creativity live on opposite sides of the brain. I’ve made a career from breaking that binary. I’m living proof that’s a lie. Here’s what most people miss: the systems we build and the art we make are not opposites. They’re reflections. As a systems administrator, I build structure, ensure security, tame chaos. But every good deployment starts like a blank canvas—silence before the solution. Every misconfigured GPO is a misplaced brushstroke. Every elegant automation? A kind of rhythm. A kind of composition.. I’m a better technologist because I think like an artist. I’m a better artist because I solve like an engineer. The Creative Practice Behind Technical Mastery Even if I don’t find time to sketch while I’m in Seattle, I bring that lens with me. Creative practice isn’t separate from technical excellence—it drives it. In a world of constant change—where systems evolve, threats mutate, and tools shift daily—the ability to adapt, imagine, and reframe isn’t optional. It’s survival. Whether I’m troubleshooting a deployment or pushing paint across a canvas, the process is the same: Observe. Interpret. Respond. Refine. Repeat until it sings. More Than a Conference—A Convergence I’m fortunate to work for an organization that sees the value in sending me here. Not because it looks good on paper—but because they understand what it means to stay sharp, curious, and human in an industry that often forgets we are. TechMentor isn’t just where I learn the latest endpoint strategies. It’s where I remember that my dual nature—the logical and the lyrical, the admin and the artist—isn’t a contradiction. It’s an advantage. And if it ever looks like I’ve pulled back the veil on the Matrix… Maybe I just stopped pretending there was one. https://techmentorevents.com/home.aspx #TechMentor #JoeyEmbers #CreativeIT #SysAdminWithASketchbook #EndpointOps #StrategicAndGritty #AlwaysLearning #RootedInGrowth #PleinAirAndPowerShell #NoInvitesNecessary There are days—more than I care to admit—when the thought of continuing feels like a quiet defeat. Not in some theatrical, flame-throwing kind of way, but in that slow erosion of spirit. The subtle hum beneath the noise: Why bother? And yet, I continue. I return to the canvas not out of convenience or certainty, but because it is the only place where the fragmented pieces of myself seem to arrange into coherence. Art, for me, is not always catharsis—it is continuity. It is the thread I follow back to myself when the world grows too loud, too fast, too indifferent. I create because silence is heavy, and expression—however imperfect—is lighter by comparison. Each piece I make is not merely a statement but a survival. A soft declaration: I am still here. Even when joy feels like a rumor. Even when the paint dries faster than my faith. Art allows me to name what has no name, to cradle grief and gratitude in the same gesture. It is how I process the ache of existence without collapsing beneath it. I do not always paint for clarity. Sometimes I paint simply to continue. To breathe. To stay. I create for the unseen witness—the passerby who stumbles across something I’ve left behind and, for a moment, feels less alone. I create for those who’ve forgotten that beauty can emerge from ruin. And, perhaps most of all, I create for the self that refused to disappear. The child who once drew constellations on the backs of receipts. The adult who now understands that home isn’t always a place—it’s a practice of return. So yes, there are days when I want to quit. But then I remember: Creation is not a luxury. It is an act of devotion. And today, I am still devoted.  “The paint will come. The words will follow. And I — I will be here, reaching outward with color and breath.” The days are lengthening. Light pours through the windows of my studio with a gentleness I had forgotten. The rain has done its work — not just in the soil, but in my soul. And now, in this pause after the storm, I find myself returning to my brushes, not in a rush to produce, but with a reverence for the act itself. Dust rests on palettes, on jars of ochre and crimson, like a fine memory. I do not brush it away too quickly. There is something holy in letting the remnants of the past linger just long enough to be understood. The studio is not simply a room. It is a mirror of the mind. And my mind has been loud these past months -- overrun with bureaucracy, burden, and battles not chosen. But here, among canvas and wood, I begin to unravel. Not perfectly. Not evenly. But with the steady, breathing rhythm of a man who still believes in beauty. I no longer paint to prove. I paint to reclaim. To let the color speak where words once trembled. Let the world name it what it will. I’ll just call it becoming.  It’s been three years since I made the decision to leave my job of 14 years in Topeka and start a new chapter in Kansas City. The transition wasn’t one of place—my family and I still call Topeka home—but of purpose and opportunity. Leaving a place where I had spent nearly a decade and a half was not easy. It was a library that had seen me grow, both professionally and personally. It held memories, friendships, and a sense of familiarity that had become woven into the fabric of my everyday life. But as much as it offered comfort, it also held me in place. Moving from one library to another wasn’t just a change of scenery; it was a deliberate choice to push myself, to grow beyond the boundaries I had known. The decision to commute 75 miles each way was daunting, but it was also a testament to my commitment—to my work, to my growth, and to providing a better future for my family. That commitment has been tested many times. Life has a way of presenting challenges that we cannot control, and the real test is how we respond. What I faced with my vehicle wasn’t just a breakdown—it was an unraveling. A cascade of issues that stretched beyond a single fix. It became a debacle—a tangled mess of mechanical failure and financial strain that threatened to upend everything I had built. In that moment, I chose to stand tall and ask for help. Libraries are known for their ability to leverage resources and provide support to those seeking knowledge, guidance, and connection. I found myself doing the same—leveraging my resources, leaning into my community, and learning to ask for help. The GoFundMe campaign I launched wasn’t just about solving a practical issue; it was about preserving the momentum I had built, continuing my creative journey, and sustaining the livelihood that supported my family. It was a moment of vulnerability met by the kindness and generosity of others. That experience reaffirmed the power of community support and the courage it takes to lean on others when the weight becomes too heavy to bear alone. Amidst these trials, my art continued to grow. From various art shows I’ve participated in over the years to tonight’s Concealed Revealed Art Auction, where Stand Tall will be featured to support the YWCA of Northeast Kansas—each show is a testament to resilience and the drive to create despite adversity. But giving back is not only about sharing my art. It’s about creating a platform for others. Through Echoes in Ink, I’ve focused on #GivingBack by offering my work and my journey as a source of encouragement and inspiration. It’s about standing tall, not just for myself, but for others who may be struggling to find their own path forward. All of these experiences have not only shaped me but have aligned with the Strategic Plan at my library—a framework built on principles of accessibility, engagement, and community support. As I continue to grow, both as an artist and a professional, I see how these values intersect. Leveraging resources, building connections, and creating pathways for growth are principles I strive to uphold in my own journey, mirroring the very mission of the library. This journey, with its chaotic turns and moments of quiet order, has aligned itself in ways I couldn't have predicted. The echoes of purpose and growth continue to resonate, guiding me through each new challenge. There are days when the drive feels long and the demands feel heavy. But every mile traveled has been part of a greater pursuit—an ongoing commitment to my work, my art, and my purpose. I didn’t leave one library to abandon the past; I moved forward to embrace something new, carrying the lessons and experiences of those 14 years with me. They remain part of who I am, even as I continue to forge my path ahead. Explore more of my work and ongoing journey at JoeyEmbers.org.  Stepping back into the studio these past two days has felt different—quieter, more reflective. No painting yet, just sitting with my thoughts, surrounded by canvases that have lived with me for years. Some are moving on, finding new homes, and with each one that leaves, I feel a strange mix of loss and liberation. Art is meant to be shared, to be seen, to exist beyond the walls of a studio. Hoarding my own work feels almost like a crime, keeping it from the conversations it was meant to spark. Each piece carries a story, but those stories aren’t meant to stay with me forever. Letting go is part of the process. It makes space—not just physically, but mentally—for new ideas, new paintings, and new explorations. As I sit in the studio now, the walls feel lighter, the air less crowded. Maybe this is how creation begins again—with room to breathe.  The wind moves without hesitation. It does not ask if you are ready. It does not slow for those who resist. It carves the land, bends the trees, reshapes the world in its passing. And if you stand against it, it will break you. But if you let go—if you surrender to its rhythm—you might find that it carries you somewhere new. The house in Weather the Storm does not fight the storm. It leans, caught in the shifting tide of air and time. It is not defeated. It is learning. It is listening. The waves beneath it rise and fall, not of water, but of movement, of change, of the unseen currents that shape all things. And beyond it all, the sun burns at the horizon—not as an ending, but as a threshold. A quiet knowing. The storm does not erase. It reveals. It strips away what is rigid and leaves only what is willing to move and grow. The moon watches from its place in the sky, distant and calm, understanding that nothing stays the same. The wind will come. It always does. But what if, instead of bracing against it, you let it lift you? What if you allowed yourself to be carried forward?  The bus ride is long. Too long. Three hours of sticky pleather seats, the rhythmic hum of tires on the highway, the faint scent of someone’s crushed peanut butter sandwich mixing with the sharp tang of orange drink from a gas station stop. Your brown paper lunch bag is warm in all the wrong ways, and you know the sandwich inside is already half-flattened from the ride. But none of that matters—because the bus hisses to a stop. And there it is. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. You step off the bus, blink in the light, staring up at the massive stone building, the columns stretching impossibly high. Teachers are rattling off instructions, something about sticking with your group, but your mind is already somewhere else. Inside. Where the real world falls away. The museum swallows you whole. Cool air. Hushed voices. Endless rooms of history and color and something you don’t have words for yet. At first, you shuffle along with the group, pretending to listen, pretending to care about the things you’re “supposed” to look at. But then- You turn a corner. And it stops you cold. A Max Beckmann painting. Card Players. A game of chance frozen in time. But this isn’t just a friendly match. The figures are rigid, their faces heavy, their bodies crowded but distant, caught in a world that feels sharp-edged, off-kilter. The air around them is thick with something unspoken. The colors press in—deep, bruised purples, smudged reds, dark shadows pooling at their feet. It doesn’t feel like a game. It feels like fate, like consequence, like something irreversible has just happened or is about to. You don’t know why, but you can’t look away. And later, standing in front of Caravaggio’s Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness, that same feeling creeps in. The hush of isolation. The weight of a moment stretched thin. Light cutting through shadow, revealing something more than just paint on a surface. The day moves on. There are more rooms, more artifacts, more discoveries—things you don’t even know are sinking in yet. Eventually, the teacher calls everyone back. Your feet ache. Your head is full. The bus is waiting. But something is different now. Seeing something today. Something that will stay with you. And then- Time bends. You are no longer the kid with the smashed sandwich and restless hands. You walk these halls alone now, your own footsteps echoing, no teacher calling you back, no bus waiting outside. The same paintings are here, but they don’t feel the same. They have changed—or maybe you have. Pause in front of Beckmann’s Card Players again. The figures still lean, still shift, still whisper their fragmented story. You stand before Caravaggio’s Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness, bathed in light, still waiting for something unseen Thirty years have passed, and yet- The wonder remains.  Life is a journey filled with fleeting encounters—whispers from fellow travelers who leave imprints on our path, whether they stay for a moment or a lifetime. Some of these voices come from those we expect—parents, mentors, elders. But others arrive unexpectedly: a stranger with a kind word, a child with an unfiltered perspective, a teacher who sees beyond struggle and into potential. I think of the teachers who put in the time, who reached into the quiet spaces where voices trembled and lifted them into the light. The ones who did more than instruct—they connected, they listened, they guided without demanding. In their presence, lessons unfolded not through textbooks but through patience, encouragement, and the belief that even the smallest voice deserves to be heard. Teach is not just about the relationship between parent and child, but about the greater exchange of learning that happens every day, in every space, in ways we don’t always recognize. It is about the moments we are seen, the times someone pauses long enough to show us a different way forward. It is about being shaped by those who teach us—whether they mean to or not. As I reflect on this piece, I invite you to think about the teachers in your own life—not just the ones in classrooms, but those who, even in passing, helped you find your voice. What lessons have you carried forward? And who might be learning from you, in ways you never expected?  (A studio beyond time, a space where paint never dries, and the scent of turpentine lingers eternally. The air is thick with conversation, with echoes of past revolutions and the weight of history pressing down like an unspoken truth. Seated around a wooden table cluttered with brushes, palettes, and half-finished canvases, a group of painters observe the world below—a world repeating its old patterns of power, control, and war. Max Beckmann, Francisco Goya, Käthe Kollwitz, and Otto Dix gather to speak, their voices painting a reality that modern minds refuse to see.) Max Beckmann (Leaning Forward, Eyes Sharp, The Smell of War Still on His Palette) "I have painted this before. Not exactly—because history does not repeat, it only rhymes. But I have seen men twist a nation’s pain into spectacle, turning suffering into a stage for power. The ones in charge believe themselves untouchable, beyond the ruin. But ruin never forgets its architects." Francisco Goya (Grim, Dipping His Brush into Darkness, His Eyes Fixed on the Horizon) "Power justifies itself through violence. I painted the executions, the men falling under blind authority, the faces turned in horror at their own helplessness. What has changed? They still script the theater of war, but now they call it diplomacy. They sit in rooms, dressed in finery, speaking of peace while the bullets are already loaded." Käthe Kollwitz (Hands Stained with the Memory of Loss, Her Voice Quiet but Unyielding) "And the people? Where do they stand in this? The mothers, the children, the ones who will never be called to the table of power but will always be the ones to bury the dead? I have etched their grief, carved their stories into stone so they would not be forgotten. But the ones who should remember choose not to see." Otto Dix (Lighting a Cigarette, His Fingers Shaking Slightly, The Battlefield Still in His Mind) "They don’t see because they don’t want to. I saw the trenches, the gas, the mutilation, the endless machine chewing men into nothing. And now? The faces have changed, the weapons more precise, but the hunger for control is the same. Look at Ukraine—they don’t want to help; they want to own. The land, the bodies, the war itself—it’s just another canvas for them to fill with their own image." Max Beckmann (Standing, Looking at the Canvas Before Them, A Silent Rage in His Brushstroke)" So what do we paint now? Another war? Another procession of hollow men shaking hands in the glow of burning cities? Or do we paint the ones who refuse to be erased? The ones who hold the line not for empire, but for existence?" Goya (Nodding, His Hand Clenched Around an Invisible Brush) "We paint the ones history will try to forget. We paint the truth before it is rewritten. We paint so that when they say this war was inevitable, someone will look at the canvas and see the lie." Kollwitz (A Deep Breath, Her Fingers Tracing the Outline of a New Work, A New Mourning Yet to Come) "Then we paint the mothers who wait for sons who will not return. The children who wake to air raid sirens instead of morning light. We paint the cost, so no one can claim they did not know." Dix (Exhaling Smoke, His Expression Hardening, His Brush Ready) "And we paint the men in the suits, the ones who play with nations like cards at a table. The ones who sit safe while others fall. We paint them for what they are, so they can never say they were not seen." (The studio is silent for a moment, the weight of their words settling like dust. Then, without another word, they pick up their brushes. The war outside rages on. But here, in this room beyond time, a different battle begins—one of truth, one of memory, one that cannot be erased.)  The Skat Players (1920) – Otto Dix "A haunting depiction of war veterans disfigured by battle, yet still bound to a game of chance, mirroring the cruel absurdity of geopolitics." (Image courtesy of WikiArt) "As Otto Dix portrayed in The Skat Players (1920), the grotesque aftermath of war is not just physical but psychological. The mutilated soldiers, engaged in a futile card game, reflect the dehumanizing cost of conflict—men reduced to mere remnants of their former selves. In the same way, today’s power players gamble with nations, treating war not as tragedy, but as a game where only they hold the cards."
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