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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. 
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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."
(The scene is set in a warmly lit studio, a sanctuary of thought and creation. The scent of oil paint lingers, and soft candlelight dances along the wooden beams. A rustic table sits at the heart of the room, covered in scattered sketches, a few worn books of poetry, and a deck of playing cards mid-game. Three figures sit opposite the artist—William Blake, W.B. Yeats, and Percy Bysshe Shelley—poets long gone, yet present in this timeless space. The artist, a modern soul, leans forward, studying the cards in their hands, caught in the weight of the moment.) The Artist (Thoughtful, Contemplative, Turning a Card Over) “I have spent my years painting, creating—not for profit, not for fame, but to understand, to capture something beyond myself. And yet, I look at the world outside, and it is filled with noise. Controlled by those who dictate thought, who shape history, who consume truth and return it hollow. I wonder—what is left for the artist in such a world?” The Poets Gathered in the Ether Blake (Eyes Burning Like Embers, Cards Resting Lightly in His Hands) “You see, then. You see the chains they forge, the illusions they build. But you hold in your hand the power to create, and creation is the great defiance. The ones who build prisons for the mind do so in fear—fear of those who dream beyond their walls.” Yeats (Studying His Hand, Lost in Thought, A Half-Smirk Forming) “We have all stood at this crossroads. The best lack conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Do you hesitate? Then know this—art is a thing of storms, not silence. Play your hand boldly.” Shelley (Casual, Leaning Back, Letting a Card Drift to the Table, Smiling) “You ask what is left for the artist? Everything. Kings crumble, empires fade, yet the poet and the painter endure. What survives of Ozymandias? Not his rule, not his throne—only the artist’s hand, carving his ruin into eternity. And so I ask, artist—what will you carve?” The Studio, A Sanctuary Amid the Noise (Beyond the studio’s tall window, the world churns. Screens flicker with propaganda, digital eyes watch unseen, and the hum of machines replaces the quiet of thought. But within these walls, time bends—history whispers through candlelight, poetry moves through the air like dust in the sun.) The Artist (Holding a Card, Considering, Then Finally Speaking) “Then let them watch. Let them build their towers of glass and steel. Let them believe they hold the world in their hands.” “I will paint.” (And as the candlelight flickers, as the cards fall upon the table, as the outside world continues its endless cycle—the artist reaches for the brush. And somewhere, in a future yet unwritten, a painting begins, whispering echoes of poets long past.)  The air is stale and thick with a collective uncertainty, as if stepping into an ancient tomb where the dust of time clings to the edges of thought. I tread carefully, not out of reverence, but out of habit—the kind that dulls the senses, the kind that binds the mind in comfortable paralysis. I know you understood this. You saw through the veil, through the illusions spun by those who would have men keep their heads bowed, their hands busy with everything but their own awakening. You saw the grotesque dance of history folding over itself, the masquerade of power dressed in absurdity. And still, you painted. Still, you wrestled with the world on your own terms, defying the cages of conformity. I wonder, Uncle, how often did you stand at the threshold, the weight of hesitation pressing against your chest? The choice is always laid before us, isn’t it? Beyond the door, beyond the city streets, beyond the borders men draw in sand. We call it freedom, but do we really know it? I am beginning to believe that the greatest captivity is not the cell or the war or the exile—it is the prison of our own minds. And yet, paradoxically, work will set you free. Not their kind of work—not the drudgery meant to drain the spirit—but the labor of breaking free, the discipline of tearing down the walls thought by thought, brushstroke by brushstroke. You, of all people, must have known that. You saw what they could not see—or worse, what they refused to see. Perhaps that is why I write to you now. Because I, too, feel the whisper of hesitation. The lingering voice at the threshold that says, Stay. That says, There is nothing new beyond this door. But that voice is a liar. It is the whisper of Screwtape himself, convincing us that the dust is sacred, that the tomb is our home, that there is nothing worth seeking beyond the veil of the familiar. I think of your exile, of how you carried your art with you, refusing to let borders, regimes, or ideology extinguish your vision. You painted Perseus’ Last Duty in defiance, exposing the violence of men. You turned war into color, despair into defiant form. Perhaps this is the true work—the transformation of suffering into truth. And so, I will not listen to the voice of doubt. I will not remain in stillness. I step forward, scattering the dust with my brush as I go. Yours in defiance, The Young Artist  The 15th Century – Bosch The room is dim, the air hums with the scent of oil and the weight of memory. Hieronymus Bosch stands before his triptych, brush hovering, tracing the lines of indulgence and consequence. Across time, Max Beckmann watches from his studio’s shadows—his world fractured, bodies contorted, the night pressing in. And I sit between them—not just a witness, not merely an observer, but something else entirely. I listen. I study their hands, their strokes, the weight of color, the way the eye moves through chaos. I feel the burden they carry. And I know—I will carry it too. I hear them calling. The church bells toll, the streets murmur with prayers and whispers. Their voices mix with the cries of merchants and the clamor of rulers, all believing themselves righteous, all believing they know the divine order of things. BOSCH: "They call it divine right, but I see the faces behind their masks. I see the grotesque hunger for power, the folly of kings and clergy alike. They demand order while sowing chaos, demand faith while harboring corruption. So I paint them as they are—grotesque, indulgent, monstrous. What else can I do?" I paint the horrors, the sins, the damned. I illuminate their hypocrisy in vivid color. They laugh. They praise. They scorn. But they never truly see. They never have.  "The Garden of Earthly Delights," Hieronymus Bosch, c. 1490–1510. Museo del Prado, Madrid. Public domain image courtesy of Museo del Prado. The 20th Century – Beckmann The world is burning, and the weight of its fire presses against the canvas. I watch the march of empires, the rise and fall of men who believe themselves gods. The wars never end, only change names. BECKMANN: "The kings and priests have changed names, but their thirst remains the same. They shatter lives, they rewrite history to suit their needs. They take, they destroy, and they demand silence. But I will not be silent. My brush is my defiance, my color is my weapon. I paint exile, I paint suffering, I paint the truth they want to bury." And so I paint. The figures grow heavier, their shadows stretch longer. My own exile weighs on me, but still, I paint.  "The Night," Max Beckmann, 1918–1919. Collection of the Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen, Düsseldorf. Image use subject to copyright restrictions. Courtesy of Kunstsammlung NRW. The 21st Century – My World
Now, as I stand in my studio, they both look at me. Their burdens linger, stretching across time. I feel the weight of it, a thread running from Bosch to Beckmann to me. My brush is in my hand, but my fingers hesitate. What am I supposed to paint? I watch through screens, a thousand windows blinking, a thousand stories told and forgotten, a thousand lives bought and sold. Empires no longer march with banners-- they expand through markets and data, invisible hands shaping destinies. Yet, amidst this digital deluge, I feel the weight of Atlas upon my shoulders. But I will not let him fall. I have seen the past, I have heard its echoes, and now I step forward. Not as a witness. Not as an observer. But as a voice. A brush lifted against the weight. A hand reaching—not just for salvation, but for you. Today, I escaped the Sunday routine with the twins to attend the final performance of "Little Shop of Horrors" at Topeka West High School. The twins, having watched the movie countless times, were buzzing with excitement for a live experience. As the curtain rose and the live band set the theater in motion, we were immediately transported into the heart of the quirky plant shop where the story unfolds. The set design was impressive—every detail meticulously executed to evoke the charm and mystery of the original tale. The seamless coordination of the set, lighting, and stage crew created an almost magical atmosphere, drawing us into the world of the musical. The performers delivered a captivating performance throughout the two hours. Their energy and passion were infectious, and the innovative portrayal of Audrey II, complete with striking puppet design and performance, truly stole the show. The twins sat at the edge of their seats, their smiles growing wider with every musical note and dramatic moment. After the show, we made our way out to the car. Once I got in and shut the door, Hayden, with a snickering voice, said, "Feed Me Dad." His playful remark perfectly captured the fun and lighthearted spirit of the day. Overall, it was a memorable afternoon filled with brilliant performances, enchanting stagecraft, and joyful family moments that left us with lasting impressions of the creativity and talent at Topeka West High School.  Beyond the Book: A Journey Through Curiosity and Community Standing in the heart of the exhibit space, I found myself transported beyond the book—not just by the incredible displays, but by the dedication of my co-workers who have brought this vision to life. Watching them piece together this experience, from the precision of curation to the seamless execution of each detail, has been nothing short of inspiring. Here, we explore the known and the unknown, pushing the boundaries of knowledge. Life Beyond Earth asks us to consider what might exist beyond our planet, drawing us into the vast, speculative wonder of the cosmos. Here, science and imagination collide, opening doors to the possibilities of extraterrestrial life. Meanwhile, Follow the Recipe invites us to trace the history of food, guiding us through the alchemy of culinary traditions, chemistry, and the artistry of cooking. Somewhere between celestial exploration and the science of a well-balanced dish, we—my co-workers, my friends—have been cooking up something of our own. Just last Friday, at our Sweethearts and Heartburn chili cook-off, the warmth of shared laughter and competitive spice filled the air. The way we came together, stirring up flavors and friendly rivalries, felt like an extension of the teamwork that fuels everything we do here. This exhibit is more than just a showcase—it’s a testament to the passion, curiosity, and craftsmanship of an amazing team. To step into this space is to venture into new worlds, both scientific and personal, where every discovery is guided by the hands that built it. From the cosmic unknown to the measured art of cooking, from the depths of research to the joy of a shared meal, we are not just presenting knowledge—we are living it, shaping it, and sharing it. And in that, we have created something truly extraordinary.  |
About the AuthorJoey Embers is a visual artist and storyteller based in Topeka, Kansas. He explores the nuances of daily life, creativity, and the ever-evolving journey of an artist. In The Painted Mind, Joey shares personal reflections on navigating the intersections of creative work, family commitments, and artistic pursuits. Through candid narratives, he delves into the challenges and triumphs of maintaining a creative spirit amidst life's demands, offering readers an intimate glimpse into his world. Beyond the canvas, Joey finds inspiration in the rhythms of everyday experiences, believing that art is intricately woven into the fabric of daily life. His writings aim to connect with fellow creatives and enthusiasts, fostering a community that appreciates the delicate balance between responsibility and the pursuit of artistic passion. ArchivesCategories |
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