Micheal Paul Cole is a photographer whose work is as much about feeling as it is about seeing—tactile, organic images animated by texture, time, and the quiet poetry of decay and transformation. Many of you knew his work long before you knew his face. You recognize its voice. You recognize the devotion behind it.

Micheal has navigated atrial fibrillation (AFib) for most of his life. Even when he wasn’t given great odds at a young age, he kept pushing forward—continuing to create, continuing to show up, continuing to live boldly, including climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. On December 9, he chose to undergo heart surgery, at the urging of his medical team, to help stabilize his rhythm. The procedure was a Cox-Maze, a surgical approach for AFib that creates a controlled pattern of scar tissue in the atria to interrupt abnormal electrical signals and support a more normal rhythm.

We’re wishing Micheal a steady, full recovery. And we’re also reaching out to our entire community—fellow artists, show directors, and longtime collectors—because you understand something in your bones: what we do is a beautiful, exhausting, unreasonable gamble.

We spend months making the work, mostly alone, pouring time and money into something no one has seen yet. Then we apply for shows and hope we get in—and if we do, we load the van and drive hours (sometimes days) into the unknown. We roll into load-in with that familiar mix of adrenaline and dread, build a small gallery outdoors in whatever weather the universe decides to serve, and hope everything lines up: the crowd, our people, the sales. We stand on asphalt for long days, juggling conversations, sales, and basic human needs—like eating, sitting, and remembering water exists—then we break it all down, pack it all back up, drive home, and start again.

It’s a joyous and uniquely wild way to live, and we choose it because it matters—because there’s nothing like meeting someone who connects with what you made. But the stark reality remains: if we don’t work, we don’t get paid. So when your body forces you to stop—especially after something as serious as heart surgery—the pressure to “get back out there” can feel intense, even when rest is exactly what’s required.

And yet, for all the solitude of the studio, we don’t actually do this life alone. We are a road family. There’s a special kind of happiness in rolling into load-in and seeing familiar faces—our dearest friends, admired colleagues, and chosen family. We’ve held each other’s tents in sudden storms, grabbed a trim line before it hits the ground, watched booths so someone can eat or take a breath, traded encouragement on painfully slow days, and lifted the heavy things—literal and otherwise. That spirit is real. Together, we create the fabric of this community.

Micheal scheduled this procedure during the slowest part of show season, but recovery doesn’t follow a calendar. No one can put a firm date on when he’ll be back at full speed. The focus right now is simple: Micheal heals fully—so he can return when his body is truly ready, not because the calendar is demanding it.

If you’ve ever admired his work, collected it, stopped in his booth (or paused for a quick rub from their pup, Addis), or offered a kind word at just the right moment—please consider helping in a practical way. Meals, groceries, small comforts, and everyday support create real ease. Not just financially, but emotionally: it tells Micheal and Laurel, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Even though many of us are apart right now, let’s send some love and holiday magic their way this season. Thank you for reading, sharing, supporting, and caring. We can’t wait to see Micheal and Laurel back on the road when he’s ready—and to see all of you again soon

Special Notes:

Because Micheal and Laurel live in a remote location, the most practical support right now is monetary donations, so Laurel can purchase what’s needed and allocate funds where they’ll help most (meals/groceries, supplies, and recovery-related needs).