Steven Philips, photographer since 1967 is, in a word, ubiquitous. He was once spotted in Paris, Amsterdam, and Albuquerque all in a single evening. As elusive as he is omnipresent, he somehow effortlessly managed not to sleep a wink from 1986 to 1988. It was much to his surprise when, a decade later, he lost the entire year of 1999 to a lazy new year’s nap, and woke up in a new millennium. How Steven manages to sustain his own personal unique interface with time and space remains a mystery, even to him. Once he turned over a new leaf, only to find he had in fact been turning the same leaf over and over his entire life. He has since acquired a leaf blower, which he takes great pleasure in brandishing in the abolishment of not only pesky yard debris, but spiritual and emotional detritus as well. The garden of Steven’s soul features a backdrop of monkey puzzle trees, and an endless variety of aromatic herbs and spices, leaving some always fresh on hand to garnish Steven’s ideas and dreams. A dash of nutmeg here, some oregano there. Perhaps the pride of the garden, this glowing green space is rife with prolific peonies of every shade and size. Steven likens himself to the ants that lick the sticky nectar from the peonies’ buds and allow them to bloom into their beauty. One never knows who or what is bursting to bloom to the fullest with just a lick of help from a friend. Steven likes the feeling of crossing his fingertips and running them down his nose so it feels like he has two. He also loves a good ¾ sour pickle, but can’t stand it when he just can’t get the pickle out of the jar. One of Steven’s most impressive characteristics is his almost supernatural ability to know when a friend hasn’t danced their heart out in too long a time, and to put on the perfect tune to get their toes tapping once again.