POSTED BY JON KALEV

POSTED BY JON KALEV

If you are sensitive to sexual imagery or politically polarized (on either side), this is not for you. I lean libertarian and favor a minimal state—one that protects individual rights, enforces contracts, and defends against force or fraud. It should not redistribute wealth or pursue broader social engineering goals. I do not vote, choose to not participate in either party. Definitely disenchanted realist. American politics is strictly transactional even at the local level is my experience.

Regarding the sexual: nothing pornographic, but grounded in reality. People have sex—accept it. It is a powerful force shaping how we think, behave, and ultimately, culture itself. How the imagery changes people’s thought patterns fascinates me. Photographers who inspire me such as Sally Mann and Stacy Kranitz present a certain unedited “truth” in my opinion and I celebrate that.

My personal philosophy draws from Brad Blanton’s concept of radical honesty and Mel Robbins’ Let Them theory, particularly in the pursuit of an authentic self. Always lurkijg in the background is Jung’s awareness of the shadow. The goal is to free individuals from the anxiety of maintaining social personas and purge the emotional stagnation that comes from withholding truth. I want to explore questions of value, meaning, and individual autonomy. I photograph places and people that speak to my subconscious, then try to understand why they resonate so strongly.

POSTED BY JON KALEV

Я хочу сказати дещо своїм друзям в Україні. Минуло багато років відтоді, як я там був, але це надзвичайно пам’ятне місце і культура. Іноді найтемніша година настає перед найяскравішим сходом сонця. Наш колишній Президент Барак Обама сказав у промові на Генеральній Асамблеї ООН: «Ми обираємо надію замість страху. Ми бачимо майбутнє не як щось, що поза нашим контролем, а як щось, що ми можемо змінити на краще завдяки узгодженим і колективним зусиллям. Ми відкидаємо фаталізм чи цинізм, коли йдеться про людські справи; ми обираємо працювати заради такого світу, яким він має бути, яким його заслуговують бачити наші діти.» — Президент Обама, виступ на Генеральній Асамблеї ООН, 24 вересня 2014 року

POSTED BY JON KALEV

Meaning “farewell’ in English. Paolo was my best friend as a child, and that single word was the last thing I said to him. Early the next morning, my mother and I were driven to a plane, having just learned the night before of my grandfather’s death. We left the Alps on a military flight bound for Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama — a departure from which I would never return.

Except for the past five years, my adult life has been spent in the mountains and wilderness of places like Alberta, British Columbia, Wyoming, and Colorado. I was drawn there because my childhood was at the edge of one of the world’s most beautiful ranges — the Dolomites of northern Italy. In my own American way, I was trying to return home to the mountains as best I could.

All through the years after college I kept a day job. Practicing architecture and planning was simply a way to pay the rent and feed the dog. The real hustle was doing whatever it took to be where I wanted to be — spending every free moment in wilderness. For me, wilderness was medicine for an abusive childhood; long weekends and nights under the stars were an antidote to the poison of trauma. Months of camping, traveling by canoe through every kind of weather, listening to wolves howl, and living out of a sleeping bag reshaped the way I thought about life. At thirty-four, I realized I had re-kindled the essence of my childhood at the foot of the Alps: the peace of wild places, a wonder at the landscape around me, and the deep belonging that comes from being part of something infinitely larger.

My family had lived in a small community called Monteviale in northern Italy. From our home, you could see a glacier year-round on the edge of the Dolomites, where the Ortles-Cevedale rose 3,905 meters (12,811 feet). I spent endless hours on alpine trails and meadows with childhood friends. The ecology of those mountains and valleys was unlike anywhere else. Across the street from our home stood a forested hill, encircled by vineyards and a a Renaissance-era villa. Villa Zileri, filled with frescoes and paintings by Giambattista Tiepolo, was a world apart. Within its massive stone walls lay an ancient forest where my friends and I spent countless hours. We played beneath oaks several meters around and sycamores as wide as ten feet — trees that had stood for centuries. This was one of the famed Berici Hills, where the villa, dating back to 1436, rose at the point where vineyards stretched twenty miles toward Vicenza. At its summit stood the chapel of San Francesco, its ceilings adorned with seashells. It was a world steeped in history, culture, and beauty — which made returning as a teenager to rural Barbour County, Alabama all the more strange. There were no art classes, no mountains, no festivals. Life revolved around Friday night football games, deer hunting, and cruising the town square. I bagged groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, made good friends, but the contrast was stark: instead of concerts, wine fairs, and a hundred days of skiing per year, there was beer in the courthouse parking lot. I have spent most of the last four decades in this country, with only brief periods of work in the Ukraine and Canada. But now, at fifty-seven, I know rural Alabama is not where I belong. With no family ties left here, I am selling my farm to pursue documentary photography full time. Nearing sixty, I understand it is now or never. After years of saving, living frugally, and paying my entrepreneurial dues, I have earned the right to live my passion.

View from the southeast. Our home was in the right corner

View from the southwest

I credit living beside Villa Zileri with inspiring me to become an architect — a path that eventually led me to photography and later to graduate studies in landscape architecture. The Veneto region, especially northwest of Vicenza, is steeped in beauty, from its rolling hills to the works of Andrea Palladio. Yet the fourteenth-century villa next door to my childhood home was unlike anything else. Unlike Palladio’s formal order, the Loschi family chose architects Francesco Muttoni and later Giuseppe Marchi, who designed with a remarkable sensitivity to the land. They allowed the contours of the hills and forests to dictate the placement and proportions of the buildings and interior spaces. After construction, Gianbattista Tiepolo was commissioned to adorn the walls and ceilings with frescoes. The result is nothing short of spectacular.

Interior of Villa Zileri with Tiepolo's frescoes painted on the ceiling and walls

Close-up views of Tiepolo's paintings

In America, architecture too often means strip malls, interstates, and walls that separate the haves from the have-nots. There are no Villa Zileris here — except perhaps behind the gates of enclaves like Palm Beach. To imagine architecture as art is, for most architects, a compromise between passion and the need to pay the bills.

Yet Villa Zileri is not unique in Italy. Across the Veneto region, there is a deep sensitivity to land and craft that shows up even in the smallest side streets. These places have been rich in character for generations. Streets were public spaces where young and old mingled, where retired men gathered to talk. In America, by contrast, such spaces are reserved largely for the wealthy. Why this is so, I cannot fully say. But I know from childhood how deeply the efforts of people like Tiepolo, Muttoni, and Palladio still shape culture centuries later. America certainly has places of beauty, but too often they exist only because wealth allows them — not for the public good. And that privatization of beauty has become a divisive cancer in the culture of the United States.

At Auburn University, where I studied architecture, the late professor Samuel “Sambo” Mockbee often reminded students: “Architecture is not art; its only product is a decaying toxic material you ‘design’ that contaminates soil, killing most microorganisms on the site — erasing whatever habitat was present for countless living beings. You’re a biodiversity serial killer, not an artist. The challenge is to become an artist.” His words stayed with me, though tragically he died before I could complete my thesis. When the time came, I proposed a year-long study of Villa Zileri and the architectural movement in the Veneto region that shaped it. My assigned thesis advisor dismissed the idea outright: “No one is interested in Italian villas. Everything about that has already been written.” It was my first real taste of a certain kind of arrogance — the belief that America sits atop some evolutionary peak of design, rendering earlier traditions irrelevant. To suggest that a group of fifteenth-century architects, who sought to unite nature and form in ways that inspired Venetian merchants for generations, were unworthy of study was not just short-sighted; it was heart wrenching in the level of ignorance it exposed. I told her so — in words best left unprinted. That defiance ultimately led me to Jack Williams, who became my thesis advisor. He opened my eyes to the rural South’s urban form and to the role racism played in shaping architecture and planning. It was a perspective I might never have discovered otherwise.

It was one of the rare times in my life where I had to go along to get along — but in the end trusting former Harvard professor Jack Williams, it proved to be in my best interest. That experience taught me never to stop asking questions about the Southern landscape, nor to stop documenting it. Yet I have never stopped wondering about Muttoni and Marchi’s ideas, or about the little chapel on the hill I once climbed in northern Italy. One day, I will return to Villa Zileri — this time with camera and sketchbook in hand. And as I begin the next chapter of life, I will look up my old friend Paolo, and finally pursue the thesis I should have written in the first place.

POSTED BY JON KALEV

WOMAN AS ELK

(Note: This is a repost of a essay I wrote several years ago after a friend's death while I worked in the San Juan mountains of southwest Colorado)

Goethe once wrote, “A man’s search for meaning must be recognized.”
I’ve been thinking lately about my friend David, who ended his own life. Outwardly, he seemed to live a charmed existence — a devoted family, an unshakable faith, wealth, and a future that appeared secure. In our community, he was valued, a quiet benefactor who gave generously but never sought recognition. People saw him as a man blessed in every way, grounded and good. Yet, beneath the surface, an emptiness grew. No one suspected that he was contemplating suicide. His real thoughts were hidden, his pain immense. In his book Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl — a neurologist, psychiatrist, and survivor of the Holocaust — tells the story of an elderly doctor who came to him, unable to overcome the depression that had gripped him since the death of his beloved wife. Rather than attempt a clinical diagnosis, Frankl posed a single question: “What would have happened if you had died first?” The doctor, startled and pained, replied, “That would have been terrible for my poor wife. She would have suffered tremendously.” Frankl gently observed, “You see, doctor? You have spared her all that suffering — but the price you pay is to survive and mourn her.” In that moment, the man’s depression lifted; his grief was reframed as an act of love, and his life regained purpose. I have friends who are therapists, and as best as I understand, their work centers on adjusting a person’s emotional state to make change possible. Yet I’ve noticed they rarely explain why this is the only approach — or consider what might be lost when it succeeds without addressing the deeper question of meaning. If you read Adler, Freud, or Skinner, you’ll find a common thread: each believed that emotions powerfully shape human experience, and each sought ways to change them. Yet time in the wilderness can lead to a different conclusion. In a deep mountain forest you begin to wonder whether we might be better served by accepting our emotions and using them to deepen our awareness, rather than constantly trying to alter them. I’ve never been convinced that a lifetime spent studying mice in cages — an environment no wild mouse would ever choose — yields wisdom greater than what already exists in the rhythms of untamed animals and ecosystems. Medicine may prize the clarity of objective thought, but that does not make the unseen and subjective any less powerful. Such truths resist reduction to phenomena observable under a microscope or MRI scan. Yes, neurons fire, synapses exchange signals, and chemicals shift. But guitar strings also vibrate when plucked, and that alone does not make someone a musician. Observing sound as data is one thing; experiencing the meaning and beauty of a song is something entirely different. Psychologists often describe mammals — humans and elk alike — as possessing a form of consciousness shaped by sensation and experience. I think of it differently: what we are witnessing is an evolutionary orchestra of millions of musicians, each playing their part in a powerful, unbroken symphony. The mews, chirps, and haunting autumn bugles of elk echoing through valleys are not merely sounds; they are the resonance of twenty million years of accumulated knowledge, carried forward in living form. If the same holds true for humans, then what we pass to future generations may already be outdated before they have the chance to express it — echoes of wisdom shaped by the past, even as the world changes beneath us. Emotions, like instincts, are shaped through experience and repetition — no different from the reaction of elk when a wolf or mountain lion stalks the herd. Our emotions may be more complex, but they are still forged by the repeated success of certain responses to our environment, not only in our own lifetimes but across countless generations. You could think of them as the notes in our “genetic song,” much like those of the elk. The challenge in the modern age is that this song is harder to hear. Elk have lived for millions of years in the familiar rhythm of predator and prey, within the same mountains and forest edges that shaped their behavior. Humans, by contrast, face environments changing at a dizzying pace — especially in the last several thousand years, as we shifted from nomadic hunter-gatherers to dense urban dwellers. Our genetic song now plays off-key, disrupted by the instability of our surroundings. In this sense, elk are more “advanced” than we are, their behavior finely tuned to their habitat through the constancy of their world. I agree with psychologists who say emotions exist to influence behavior in ways that serve an evolutionary purpose. But changing them assumes we understand that purpose. Even if we think we do, we risk interrupting a pattern of adaptation that could be vital to our survival in ways we cannot yet comprehend. Perhaps this — the deep trust in inherited patterns — is the hidden wisdom elk offer. Many children grow up in emotionally disconnected homes, with no safe space to express themselves. Elk, by contrast, live in the constant safety of the herd. In my own family, my father ruled with an iron fist, daring anyone to challenge him, punishing tjose who did. My mother sought her own escape through teaching and by surrounding herself with dozens of dogs. I left home at the earliest opportunity, first for Colorado, then Canada. My father was a cruel man, and he believed his way was the only way, rejecting any opinion to the contrary. This created a stifling environment, where voices were muted and self-expression was crushed, trust non-existent. Without the “wolf at the door” — and I would argue there is immeasurable value in that wolf — there were no immediate consequences for dysfunctional behavior, as there would be in the elk herd. Modern psychology often focuses on suppressing emotional responses, yet this can lead us to shape our lives around perceived logic while shutting down the emotional currents that keep us alive. We become reactive rather than responsive, ignoring dangers instead of addressing them. Our culture labels emotional sensitivity as weakness. We learn to turn off our feelings, to prioritize acceptance over authenticity. In doing so, we slowly lose ourselves. Elk have no such luxury. Their feelings translate directly into action, shaped by the realities of survival. Their herds have complex social structures, and in my years as a mountain guide, I’ve observed the leaders are almost always older cows — wise matriarchs. In Silverton, Colorado, high up in the San Juan Mountains at elevations between 9,000 ft (2700 m) and 13,000 feet (3,900m), most elk migrate down-valley toward Durango for winter. But a small herd remains, gathering each year on a sunlit slope just east of town. They are the same species as the migrating herds, yet their behavior is entirely different. My conclusion is the migration is a learned behavior — taught by elders and shaped by the history of winters past. One herd believes winter means scarcity and danger; the other thrives in place. Watch closely, and you’ll see the matriarchs passing down this knowledge — guiding the young along ancient trails, showing them where to graze, where to bed down, and where to cross streams safely. In deep snow, they lead the herd to rocky outcrops of certain types of stone that radiate warmth at night. These lessons are subtle but vital: where to find food, where to find shelter, where to survive. In the petroglyphs scattered across this region, elk appear again and again, sometimes carved alongside spirals that Carl Jung interpreted as symbols of a cosmic life force. The Ute people teach that there is no difference between two-legged and four-legged beings, that all are equal in the eyes of the Creator. I wonder what knowledge the elk might share if we could speak across species — and what connection they hold to the divine life force the Utes believe was set in motion by Senawahv, creator of the world and all living beings. I’ve probably obsessed enough about elk — but what if we are more like them than we care to admit? Imagine the chaos if an elk therapist showed up in Silverton to counsel a herd on their fear of predators or winter. Elk accept their emotions instead of trying to control them. They trust instincts honed over millennia. What if we lived that way — respecting our emotions as a kind of intelligence? Suppressing emotions, as my friend David did, can sever us from our inner compass, sometimes with tragic end results. Silverton Colorado Our brains may be larger than those of elk, but that doesn’t mean we manage our environment more wisely. When I watch elk, I see them learning and adapting every day, forming new emotional patterns at both the individual and herd level. I’ve tried to bring this “elk wisdom” into my own life. My partner may not resemble an elk — though she can be just as formidable — but watching them has taught me how to honor her emotions rather than override them. For example, she has learned to believe that if a man sacrifices to give her what she wants — or refrains from doing something because she protests — it will eventually breed resentment. This fear, justified or not, plants the seed of emotional abandonment. Over time, the anxiety it creates can erode a relationship. In an elk herd, such a pattern would be unthinkable. Through experience and repetition, elk accept the emotions that serve them, trusting they have a purpose even if it isn’t obvious. When I see my partner through that lens, I recognize that her emotions — even the difficult ones — may carry a deeper, evolutionary function. Honoring her feelings rather than trying to change them helps me understand her. I watch for subtle signs — the shift in her tone, the set of her shoulders, the figurative elk “ears” that signal distress. Her anger, fear, and joy are shaped not only by her own life but by generations before her. Instead of suppressing them, I choose to listen, because in them I hear the story of her herd. Perhaps she is part elk — in disguise, of course — alerting me to the dangers in our world so that we can face them together. But to understand those dangers, I must first listen, and then ask why they are there. Goethe’s words remind me that the search for meaning is not an abstract exercise — it is as essential to survival as food or shelter. David’s tragedy, Frankl’s wisdom, and the quiet lessons of the elk all point to the same truth: when we disconnect from the purpose embedded in our emotions, we lose a part of ourselves that evolution spent millions of years shaping. Meaning is not found by silencing our instincts but by listening to them — in ourselves, in one another, and even in the wild herds of elk that roam the San Juan mountains. If we can honor that inner song, slightly off-key though it may sometimes be, we may find that our search for meaning has been answered in the very voice we have been trying so hard to quiet.

Notes 1 Frankl, Viktor E. 2020. Man’s Search for Meaning. London, Rider Books. ‌2 Jaynes, Julian. 2003. The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. Boston, Houghton Mifflin. 3 Southern Ute Indian Tribe. (2015). Ute Indians: History: Chronology. Retrieved from The Southern Ute Indian Tribe: ~https://www.southernute-nsn.gov/history/chronology/~ 4 Carl Gustav Jung, Herbert Read, and R F C Hull. 2010. Psychology and Alchemy. London, Routledge. ‌5 McNeil, L. D. 2012. Ute Indian Bear Dance: Related myths and bear glyphs. Boulder, University of Colorado.

POSTED BY JON KALEV

The 5 years that changed my life

There was a point in my life where I shut myself in a room for 20 hours a day for a couple of years. Except for feeding cows and fencing I sat in a small room, stared at white boards filled with notes and read books. I studied and focused on the financial markets learning how to make good investment decisions. Something that had eluded me most of my adult life. I had entrepreneurial successes but seemed incapable of sustaining them and building real wealth. First I was fortunate I could take time off life leave my job. If I had a family or traditional career it would not have been possible. Secondly I had my faith in the system erased after fighting lawsuits to defend the rights of others and playing journalist. Third I had a best friend who never gave up supporting me. Even when I gave up on myself she did not give up on me. The only response I have is to follow my Grandfather's rule of the three little A's. Give them Appreciation, Affection and Attention daily. Do this to who you care about and you won't have to worry about anything. You don't need books, talk shows or therapists. Just be a fucking man.

My Grandfather Leroy Carroll Lastly I had a father that was tough as nails and mean as hell that tried to make life impossible for my mother and me. Sometimes it takes a fierce adversary to make you realize the world does not play nice. Simple rules – destroy those that seek to harm you, show them no mercy. Never give anyone except those you love a second chance.

Was I crazy to think in my late 40’s a man could sit in a small room invest over a year studying what Warren Buffet, Bogle and and Lynch successfully did, learn to identify patterns and find value in what other miss? Can I give myself something better than a college MBA? In my case, with a great deal of luck, struggle, a 1,000 cups of coffee and psychedelic mushrooms I succeeded while managing herd of 200 cows single handedly. It was not easy and the hardest part is still not to lose faith when numbers don’t go how you hope but stay the course. The herd goes one way, smart money another. Laugh if you want to the image of mushrooms and cows but this way of thinking I developed made me millions. It forced me to clearly see the world as it is and not how I wanted it to be. Only then could I make good investment decisions. I had had chances before in life and was grateful to have worked for Tom McCloskey at Cornerstone Capital But the truth is I wasn’t mature or responsible enough to be there at that point in my life. Nor did I appreciate the opportunity. Suddenly I was capable of serious adulting and what lessons I learned from Tom and his team were my starting point. I realized I had learned a lot more than I ever thought. A simple philosophy from him guided me – outwork and out-think anyone standing in your way. The painful truth I faced is all this time I was standing in my own way.

My bed was this sleeping bag for several years

Here are the books I studied and invest based on their principles.

1. The Little Book of Common Sense Investing: The Only Way to Guarantee Your Fair Share of Stock Market Returns (Little Books, Big Profits) 2017 by John C. Bogle
2. The Intelligent Investor, 3rd Ed.: The Definitive Book on Value Investing, 2024 by Benjamin Graham, Jason Zweig
3. Buffettology: The Previously Unexplained Techniques That Have Made Warren Buffett The Worlds
4. The Warren Buffett Stock Portfolio: Warren Buffett Stock Picks: Why and When He Is Investing in Them – 2011 by Mary Buffett, David Clark
5. Warren Buffett and the Interpretation of Financial Statements: The Search for the Company with a Durable Competitive Advantage – Deckle Edge, 2008 Mary Buffett, David Clark
6. Warren Buffett's Ground Rules: Words of Wisdom from the Partnership Letters of the World's Greatest Investor – 2016, by Jeremy C. Miller
7. The Intelligent Investor's Mistakes: Warren Buffett: 38 Buffett’s Investment Stories, Gain Wisdom, Master Risk and Maximize Profits to Build Enduring Wealth, Balaji Kasal
8. Buffettology: The Previously Unexplained Techniques That Have Made Warren Buffett The Worlds... – Mary Buffett, David Clark
9. Educated REIT Investing: The Ultimate Guide to Understanding and Investing in Real Estate Investment Trusts 1st Edition by Stephanie Krewson-Kelly, Glenn R. Mueller, Merrie S. Frankel, Calvin Schnure
10. Investing Between the Lines – 2023 by Rittenhouse

I read the books and took notes. Then I read them again and took more notes. Then I joined online forums and listened to other's ideas and read their notes. Then I took classes about the books and then read them all again and took more damn notes. Now I know what to do and when to do it without hesitation.

A few things I’ve learned the hard way. Purge your friends and acquaintances that keep you down. Most of them are where they are in life because they won’t do the hard work to change. Instead, like I often did, they blame others. Face yourself with radical honesty and where ever you are weak admit it and work your ass off to be stronger. Don’t make excuses for yourself or anyone around you. Right, wrong or indifferent MOVE FORWARD.

Life comes down to two choices, be a sheep or be the wolf. The path of the wolf is wanting nothing and needing nothing from anyone. Only then is your mind free, use that freedom wisely. Pray daily and often then work until you drop. When someone loves you unconditionally, invest back in them 100 fold. Love a woman as she is and how God made her. Understand most people only want what they can get from you, mostly money. Use their predictability to your financial advantage. Play to their emotions and needs and on your end keep it math.

Don’t waste a fucking moment on politics, realize it's transactional. Politicians do what they are paid to do, no more no less. The rest is theatre. Buy only what makes money and relentlessly focus on how to make your money make money. Your budget should be a percentage of the money your money makes- do this and you will kill the disease of lifestyle creep. When bad times come along don't be scared, Covid or whatever, when everyone is screaming bloody murder and selling out – buy everything that's undervalued. Be the motherfucking wolf. Eat the sheep.

POSTED BY JON KALEV

POSTED BY JON KALEV

POSTED BY JON KALEV

POSTED BY JON KALEV