There’s something almost sacred about the way water behaves—how it shimmers, shifts, and slips through our grasp. It’s a subject that’s haunted artists for centuries, but what makes the ‘Refractions’ exhibition in Evanston so compelling isn’t just the art itself. It’s the collision of two distinct creative minds—Lynne Miller Jones and Stephen Guenther—who’ve both spent decades chasing the same elusive essence of water, but through entirely different lenses. This isn’t just an exhibition; it’s a conversation between mediums, between time and stillness, and between the human desire to capture something that’s always in motion. And honestly? I think that’s what makes it so quietly revolutionary.
Let’s start with Miller Jones. Her paintings are deceptive. From afar, they look like hyper-realistic photographs—those ripples, the way light fractures into a thousand tiny diamonds on the surface. But step closer, and the magic unravels. The brushstrokes become visible, the abstraction creeps in, and suddenly you’re staring at a piece that’s both a portrait of water and a meditation on how we perceive reality. What fascinates me is how she’s turned her own photography into a kind of visual diary. She takes thousands of images, but only ever picks one fragment—a quarter of a wave, a sliver of sunlight—to turn into a painting. It’s like she’s saying, ‘This is the moment that matters.’ And honestly, I think that’s a lesson for all of us: we’re constantly surrounded by beauty, but we rarely stop to notice it unless we force ourselves to.
Then there’s Guenther, whose approach feels almost like a spiritual practice. For over 50 years, he’s been photographing water in the Bahamas, standing waist-deep in the surf, waiting for the perfect moment when the light, the movement, and the texture of the water all align. He’s taken 3,000 to 4,000 photos of the same place, each one a snapshot of a fleeting instant. But here’s what’s striking: his work isn’t just about capturing water. It’s about the act of being present. He describes the experience as a kind of meditation, where everything else fades away and all that remains is the sound of waves and the weight of the saltwater. And I can’t help but think that’s why his photos feel so meditative—because they’re not just images. They’re fragments of time, frozen in a state of becoming.
What makes this pairing so fascinating is the way their approaches mirror each other without ever overlapping. Miller Jones uses her camera as a tool to dissect water, breaking it down into its smallest components before rebuilding it in paint. Guenther, on the other hand, uses his camera as a kind of spiritual compass, searching for moments that feel almost transcendent. Yet when their works are hung side by side, the difference disappears. You can’t tell which is the photo and which is the painting. That’s not an accident—it’s a testament to how deeply they’ve both understood the subject. And I think that’s the real takeaway here: art isn’t about the medium. It’s about the message, the emotion, the way it makes you feel when you look at it.
There’s also something deeply human about both of their stories. Miller Jones didn’t start painting until she was in her 40s, after a career as a nurse and mother. She took a leap of faith, encouraged by her husband, and now she’s going back to school for an MFA. That kind of reinvention—choosing to start over, to risk failure, to embrace the unknown—is rare. It speaks to a hunger that’s not just about making art, but about evolving as a person. And Guenther, who’s been photographing water for decades, has a similar drive. He doesn’t just take pictures; he’s on a lifelong quest to understand something that’s always changing. In a world that values instant gratification, that kind of patience is almost admirable.
The gallery owner, Ross Martens, says the synergy between their works is ‘unusual.’ But isn’t that the point? Photography and painting have always been seen as separate disciplines, but ‘Refractions’ blurs those lines. It’s a reminder that art isn’t static. It’s alive, fluid, and ever-changing—just like water. And maybe that’s why the exhibition feels so fresh, so urgent. In a time when we’re all racing through life, it’s a call to slow down, to look closely, and to see the beauty in the small, fleeting moments we often overlook.
So if you find yourself in Evanston, I’d urge you to visit ‘Refractions.’ Not just to see the art, but to let it remind you of something we’ve all forgotten: that the world is full of wonder, if only we have the courage to stop and look.
