Roan Hesse

Multidisciplinary & Experimental Artist

Stories & Resources

  •  ☆ Subversion Art Therapy

    Art is perceived as many things: entertainment, a job or lifestyle, a hobby. But one thing that tends to be overlooked is the power of visual art and its ability to communicate emotions, stories, ideas, and beliefs. Art therapy is integral to many artists & their practices, whether they recognize it or not.

    After my first relationship ended right out of high school, I was in melodramatic shambles. A lot of what I had came to recognize as my normal reality was completely turned on it’s head, and essentially, I had to start over. At the time, I only thought it would be a few months before a sense of normal returned to me, but little did I know, that healing would take years.

    Maybe for normal relationships, the process was quicker, but my first romantic relationship with a partner was all by that. At the age of 17, I decided to runaway from my home to be with a 23 year-old man who groomed me. I was unaware of this at the time because of my naiveness & faith within my partner having my best interest in mind, and vice-versa.

    Long story short however, I accumulated a good amount of pain, trauma, and distrust in others I romantically pursued over the next few years. After seeing several therapists, some more helpful than others, one of them encouraged me to take a look at my practice & passions within visual art as an outlet for dealing with some of that pain.

    At the time, a lot of my work was the documentation of the underground punk & DIY scene in Chicago, so starting to migrate away from that and focus primarily on interpersonal concepts was a struggle initially. Not only was it uncomfortable, but I had the slightest clue of how to go about it.

    What was going to be the most effective way to deal with it? What should I make? How do I even build a proper concept? What if other people don’t like it? Those were some of the initial questions I was asking myself, but they were all the wrong ones.

    It took me a while to realize that not all art had to be public or shared. Sure, it was good to get back feedback from others on how to improve my concepts or techniques, but that didn’t matter here.

    Another thing I felt like I had to abide by was the general principal of what makes art art – which at the time I felt meant I had to create something aesthetic & pleasing to myself and others. Sure, it would be cool & maybe get me some brownie points, but again, that didn’t matter either. It reminds me of something my dad always told me as a kid:

    “Art has no rules”

    And he was right. Who was to tell me what was right or wrong, what was ineffective or effective? I think having gone to a creative school meant that I had this idea instilled in me that what I was making had to follow an outline or checklist. To a degree, that’s true. You can’t make a painting without first putting paint on a canvas, and you couldn’t create a (darkroom) print without exposing a piece of paper to some light and submerging it into various chemical baths.

    There is a process that has to be learned to create certain types of art, but that’s just part of art & the creative process. I learned later that art can be anything, from something a simple or absurd as a single dot on a massive white canvas, to a line drawn down a sidewalk with chalk. Art isn’t just what we see, but it’s also a performance, an experience, and/or a documentation of imperfections in life.

    I think of all these little epiphanies and moments of realization, I learned that what truly makes art is the experience of it. What somebody interprets, whether right or wrong, to what the artist themself experiences.

    I began journaling, doodling, and creating paintings for myself in my spare time. Anytime that I had extra frames or shots left on a roll of film, I’d fill the rest up with self-portraits or things that I wanted to take pictures of for myself, keeping the possibility that others will see this out of mind and finding a way to direct the energy I had from anxiety & pain into a creative process. And through that creative process, you began to heal.

    I like to make art that takes time, whether its painting, analog photography, or drawing- things that take more than just an hour to typically make. And throughout that long, extended process of creating, I’m able to reflect on what I’m creating. What prompted me to make this? What does this do to my thoughts or feelings revolving around ‘x’? In a way, the process of creating art itself is like a therapist, helping you uncover and realize things you wouldn’t have before because you took the time to really reflect, process, and question experiences that’ve impacted you.

    Fast forward to today and the chaotic political climate that we in America (and concerningly other parts of the world) are beginning to experience, the desire to commit to this process again has come back. Yes, art can help heal past wounds, but it can also help cope with the present and the uncertainty of the future.

    In my upcoming project, I plan to respond to the assault on the trans & LGBTQ+ community, which has been at threat from multiple executive orders, legislation, and an increasingly hostile civilian population that acts out over fear of the unknown.

    With over 50% of the American population now opposed to the new White House ballroom and in conjunction with the hostility towards a community I identify within, I’ve decided to create a series of DIY posters and flyers to subvert the administration’s attacks on the LGBTQ+ community.

    I plan to print out several variations of DIY/underground drag & fashion shows, vogue events, etc… that will propose to take place in the new White House ballroom. Additionally, as part of the performance of this series of work, I plan to wheatpaste and publish these flyers around several urban environments, ranging from Chicago, New York, LA, Washington DC, Kansas City, etc… As I am only one person, if you reside in a major city (such as those listed above), please feel free to reach out to me to participate, as this project is more effective if we have more people putting up more posters in more places.

    If you couldn’t tell already, it would be impossible to hold a civilian event in the White House, let alone a LGBTQ+ event. But subverting that hate, provoking unconstitutional policy, is the least I can do to not only demonstrate the absurdity of the status quo, but also find comfort in knowing that I’m doing something to fight an administration I feel powerless against.

    Stay tuned as I will post my poster drafts here soon. Until then, stay strong & keep your head up – our fight is long from over.

  • ☆ TSA & Your Film

    Since the Transportation Security Administration formed months after 9/11, the security process has put traveling photographers’ film at risk. Xray machines became apart of the standard procedure when traveling via plane, great for efficiently viewing a bag’s contents, but undeveloped film isn’t a fan of that ESP.

    Any film with a speed over 800 iso was at risk of degradation, subject to fogging (exposure) and artificating. Film at lower speeds, such as the common consumer grade film with an ISO of 200 – 400 are not at risk, but due to paranoia and an understanding of how my luck is sometimes, I always request a hand check on my film. Though it’s unnecessary, I just like the precaution, and it usually only takes a minute as they swab the canisters or rolls, validate with a machine, and hand it back to you.

    This wasn’t something I was thinking of too much during my latest plane trip in September, from Kansas City to Las Vegas. This was the first time I was traveling with 4×5 sheet film, which comes in a dark bag inside a double-layered box.

    When I passed through security, I requested my film be hand checked, and the TSA agent did the same-old swab and read, passing me through and onto my flight. Everything went as it should, and within 50 minutes we were airborne. Shortly after takeoff, the smell of food, like fried chicken, started to linger throughout the cabin. I rolled my eyes dramatically, wondering why some people eat foul smelling when on public transit.

    After about 20 minutes from take off, an announcement over the PSA from the captain informed us that we had struck a bird upon take off, and due to heavy vibrations in the port engine, we would return to KCI to assess the damage before proceeding. We gated, deplaned, and after a half hour, were told that our next opportunity to leave would be at 8:50 PM, 3 hours away from the when we heard that new information. I decided to rebook my flight for the next day, and so I went home.

    The next day, I arrived at the airport, expecting a similar process as the day before. I passed through TSA, again requesting a hand check, but this time a different person from the day before took my film, presumably a supervisor or manager.

    She told me that she had to open the box that held my film due to policy, and I told her that was fine as long as she didn’t open the dark bags, which would expose my film. For context too, this was a box of Fomapan 100 BW film, with about 78 unexposed sheets in it. She acknowledged my request, and began to open the box.

    Meanwhile, another TSA agent came over with my bag, which had also been flagged for further inspection. While he was asking me if that was my bag, I noticed that the supervisor inspecting my film was about to open the bag of film.

    “WAIT WAIT WAIT” I startled, before she undid the singular piece of tape keep the bag shut. Jawdropped, I watched the woman pull out the 78 sheets that were between two pieces of cardboard, and she thumbed through every single one.
    “You know you just exposed all his film, right?”, the TSA agent with my bag said, also shocked that she had just opened it. I followed with a, “You just ruined every single sheet”.

    “Well I have to check everything that’s inside boxes, it’s policy.”, she replied unbothered, putting the now ruined film into the bag before back into the box. “File a claim.”, she stated before walking off.

    The TSA agent with my bag apologized for her while inspecting my bag, taking the other box of film I wanted to have hand checked back to the scanner to pass it through. It was also ISO 100, and I regretted my decision, made out of paranoia.

    I left the TSA checkpoint and headed for my gate, and began to languish about my situation and the amount of money that was just set on fire. I dumped the whole exposed box into a trash receptacle outside my gate, thankful I hadn’t shot anything – that would be worse.

    Moral of the story is, maybe don’t give into the unnecessary paranoia or precautions surrounding X-rays and film, especially if it’s under the threshold for fogging & artifacts. Most people neither use nor travel with sheet film anyway, so it shouldn’t be anything to worry about if you got a few rolls of hikes and beach photos. At least with 35mm film, TSA is unlikely to thumb through each frame in broad daylight.

  • ☆ Load. Your. Rolls.

    A painful realization that turned into a vital lesson as an analog photographer. Back in 2021-2022, I was avidly attending as many DIY and house-based performances from the underground punk scene of Chicago. I couldn’t get enough, going to multiple shows a weekend sometimes, always with my camera. My projects, From the Corner to the Floor and Residual Blue were built off a lot of the content that I collected from attending these shows. But there is one show I wasn’t able to fully capture due to a critical mistake.

    After attending several shows at an apartment that granted itself the name “Gayhouse”, the organizers decided to find a warehouse location along the north branch of Chicago’s river to both have a little bit more control over the crowd and separate themselves from being personally liable from damages, injuries, etc… I attended multiple shows at this location, somewhat disappointed of how bare and stripped it was inside, but nonetheless grateful to be in a space that was intended to hold a greater audience.

    Earlier photos from Gayhouse events

    I was planning on going to another show there in early 2022, I packed my Canon AE-1, slipped a roll into it (but didn’t load it, thinking I would do this later when I got there), and started my one hour commute via the train & bus to get to this venue on the other side of town. I had done this dozens of times at this point, going to various apartments, houses, venues – wherever these shows were being held, so my guard was down you could say.

    Upon arriving to Gayhouse, it was the same old. Tell staff at the door I was media/photography, find a corner to hide my backpack & supplies in, and start to make my away the room, snapping pics of performers, attendees, anything weird or mischievous that I could capture with my analog SLR.

    As the music began, again, I did the same thing that I always did. Focus, cock/crank the shutter, and shoot. It was maybe 45 mins after I had arrived, around the start of the second performer’s set, when I went back to the corner to retrieve a new lens and sip some beer. The corner I had chosen too was maybe 15 feet from the door I came in through, so I had pretty good access to everything – whether that was a cigarette, following an artists in/out of the venue, etc…

    As I was crouched in the corner, swapping my lens and taking swigs of cheap beer, I noticed a beam of light from a flashlight come in through the front door. In enters a dozen cops, who off the bat seemed to overwhelm the staff at the door handling ticketing, who didn’t know what to do. Immediately, I chucked my beer in the nearest trashcan (I was only 20 at the time), and began to collect my backpack & other supplies I had about. I did my best to document the inside as cops began ushering people out, only allowing me to get 5 – 10 frames snapped before I was escorted out of the building.

    Outside the Gayhouse venue was utter chaos. Artists/performers & their friends/groupies started to verbally harass the cop, some people were on top of dumpsters, a line of police cars ran down the block, and a helicopter came in from above, spotlighting the parking lot in which the growing crowd was now gathering.

    I saw this as pure gold. I was turning left and right, snapping pictures of artists & people I knew posing in front of cops, mocking them. I took pictures of a group of people with their fists raised to the sky, flipping off what we assumed was a CPD helicopter. I even got pictures of some people who had been detained from getting to rowdy and having altercations with the police. I felt a wave of euphoria move over me as I saw the frame counter of my camera hit 36.

    iPhone photo of the light from a CPD chopper over the venue.

    “Great”, I thought, preparing to pop in another roll in but this time it would be a roll of Kodak Gold instead of the BW film I had been shooting before. Upon opening my camera, however, I made one of the most painful & horrific discoveries that I’ve had since becoming a photographer: I never threaded the film, and therefore, captured 0 images of what I had just witnessed.

    Instructions from a Konica SLR user manual demonstrating how to properly load 35mm.

    For those unfamiliar with how film rolls work with analog cameras, once you put the roll into the camera, you still have to feed it across the shutter to the other side, so that way, when you advance the film, it pulls in a fresh section of unexposed film that you can then expose to capture an image.

    I had failed to do this, earlier in my mind thinking I would do it at the show. I learned from a great mistake that I haven’t recreated since: always verify that you’ve loaded the film. Whether you listen to it moving or watch your rewind spin/rotate when cocking/advancing, or whether you double-check that your film advances and that you’ve loaded it properly before you even close your camera, verifying if you camera is loaded is the difference between capturing gold and capturing nothing.

    Most of photography in the documentary/fine art realm follows an idea from Henri Cartier-Bresson: The Decisive Moment. This is the moment in time where you press that shutter, and capture whatever it is you’re capturing. It relies heavily on the patience, thought, and quick response that can either make or break an image.

    Maybe you’re sitting at a boring intersection all day, with only cars passing by with the occasional pedestrian appearing here or there. But what if you leave and miss something? What if, right after you’ve left, a bicyclist who isn’t paying attention, runs into a pole & you capture it? Not the best thing for the cyclist but not something you can necessarily control either.

    Part of being a photographer is recognizing the potential that lies in a certain scene or area, and the change that can happen there, whether great or small, is what must be taken into account when trying to construct an image. Hopefully, you’ll remember to check if you’ve loaded your roll properly when that time comes.

  • ☆The Bean Bomb: Lessons from Camping at Death Valley National Park

    Learned a big lesson this weekend: not all cans of beans are made equally. This past weekend, some friends and I went to Death Valley Nat’l park for Halloween, just to explore and see some cool stuff. We camped Friday – Sunday, and as someone who had been camping dozens of times throughout my childhood, this would be simple.

    One thing I had learned from my dad during all those camping trips as a kid was a better way to prepare breakfast. At the end of the night, after the fire has gone out, you stick a can of beans over the coals so that by the time you wake up in the morning, you have hot (or at least warm) food to eat first thing – no need to wait for a fire to start or for the coals to get hot enough again. So that’s exactly what we did: I put two cans of beans in the fire (one regular Busch can and another brand that didn’t have bacon, for the vegetarian in our group).

    Settling down on our first night was rough. Death Valley is essentially a sun-bleached valley, mostly made up of rocks, sand, and dirt, with the occasional vegetation that had either been browned by the sun or scorched to death. It was hard to get comfortable since I had seemingly chosen the hardest patch of earth to prop my tent up on, and the $9 half-inch foam pad I decided to get from Walmart didn’t do much to relieve my pressure points or joints from the hardened dirt.

    As I finally was able to get comfortable by lying face down on all my packed clothes, I took note of just how quiet the desert really was. You could really only here wind, and the occasional car beep as people shut things down & locked up for the night.

    As I began to drift to sleep, however, an immense explosion rang out, echoing throughout the valley. A rain of what I assumed was dirt came down upon my tent, immediately alarming me due to its apparent proximity. My heart was racing at this point too, adrenaline coursing with my veins and pulling me out of the uncomfortable sleep I was about to doze off into.

    I was sat up now, intently listening to any other sounds to try and figure out what just happened. I assumed this may had been a halloween prank or something, figuring that somebody had thrown an M-80 or other explosive into the dirt field in which my tent was next to. After a minute or so of not hearing anything, I heard my friends’ tent unzip as they made their way out to our fire pit. And at that moment, I realized what had happened.

    My friend came to my tent, beckoning me to come help them clean up a can of beans that had erupted, scattering overcooked bits of navy beans in a 30 foot radius around our campsite, some making it into our neighbors as well. I started to feel pretty bad too since our neighbors, who’s tent was about the same distance as mine, most likely receive the worst of the disaster. They had their whole tent open, cover off and everything to watch the sky at night. I can only imagine what they must have felt after hearing that loud of a bang followed by bits of beans and sauce rained upon their uncovered tent.

    We began to clean up, and the extent of the destruction became apparent: our picnic table which was once clean (besides the dirt & weathering it had) but now had bits of beans and sauce painted over it completely. The fire pit, ground zero for the detonation, had expelled most of the ash & charcoal over our chairs (which also had beans on them). My favorite hat, which I had left out, went from white and red turned to orange and red. We did the best we could picking up the bigger chunks that were visible in the minimal lighting we had, already exhausted and half asleep.

    Somehow, despite making our presence and abundance of food known to the rest of the valley, we didn’t attract any coyotes. In the morning, we woke up to a flock of birds doing the work for us, consuming the remnants of last night’s catastrophe. We did end up leaving the other can of Busch’s beans in the pit, but out of fear of a repeat scenario, decided to move them away from the majority of the coals.

    Lessons to be learned? If a can of beans had a pop-top or peel-back lid, it’s probably not the best idea to put it over 700°F coals. 🙂