The Story Behind the Shoot: Inside My TV20 Creative Focus Interview
One of the reasons I started The Story Behind the Shoot is because the moments we share publicly are usually just a fraction of the full story.
We see the finished portrait, the final film, or in this case, the television interview. What we don’t often see are the emails, the scheduling, the balancing act, the quiet moments beforehand, or the conversations that happen once the cameras stop rolling.
This is the story behind my TV20 Creative Focus interview.
On July 7, I received a call from Christian Patterson of TV20. He had reached out to ask about the final days of When the Streetlights Flicker and shared that TV20 was interested in featuring the exhibition as part of their Creative Focus series.
I didn’t need to think about it. I accepted immediately.
As artists, we spend countless hours creating work that often lives quietly in studios and galleries. An opportunity to share not just the artwork, but the story behind it, is something I never take for granted.
The interview was scheduled for Wednesday, July 29, just days before the exhibition was set to close.
If I’m being honest, I had mixed emotions.
Part of me wished it had happened a little earlier while there was still more time for people to experience the exhibition in person. But those thoughts were quickly replaced with gratitude. Whether it happened during opening week or closing week, it was still an incredible opportunity, and one I was genuinely excited about.
About a week before filming, Christian sent over the interview questions. Around that same time, I let him know we’d actually be filming during what would normally be my lunch break from my full-time job.
Work was especially busy. We were preparing for a major annual company meeting that I would be attending to photograph and create content around, and I simply didn’t have the bandwidth to take the day off.
Christian completely understood and assured me he would let the production team know that we’d be working within a limited window.
Ironically, because work had been so busy, I hadn’t spent much time thinking about the interview itself.
That was probably for the best.
I’ve always preferred conversations over scripts. I read through the questions to make sure nothing would completely catch me off guard, but I intentionally didn’t rehearse my answers. I wanted whatever happened that day to feel genuine. If someone was going to hear me talk about my work, I wanted them to hear me.
Interview day arrived.
I made it to the gallery a little before noon so I could turn on the artwork lights, walk through the space, and gather myself before everyone arrived.
A few minutes later, the production crew buzzed in and immediately began unloading cameras, lights, and audio equipment. Watching a gallery transform into a television set was pretty surreal. While they worked, I naturally found myself doing what I always do—capturing a little behind-the-scenes content of my own.
Not long after, host Cornell Calhoun arrived.
From the moment he introduced himself, he had an incredible spirit about him. Warm, welcoming, and easy to talk to. Within another five minutes or so, I was wired with a microphone, the cameras were rolling, and it was time to begin.
The interview never felt like an interview.
It felt like a conversation.
Cornell asked thoughtful questions, and my answers came naturally. I wasn’t searching for the “right” response or trying to sound more polished than I really am. I simply spoke honestly about the exhibition, the work, and the experiences that shaped When the Streetlights Flicker.
When we wrapped, I replayed the conversation in my head.
Not because I thought I’d said anything wrong.
I just wondered if I’d spoken too freely.
Had I rambled? Did my answers make sense? Were they what television was looking for?
Those thoughts crossed my mind for a moment.
Then I reminded myself that I had done the one thing I cared most about.
I showed up as myself.
As the crew packed up, Cornell found himself standing in front of one particular piece: Grannie’s House.
He asked why it wasn’t available for purchase.
I shared that the original holds a very personal place in my heart. I created that piece during a difficult season when my aunt—someone who was like a second mother to me and who also lived on the second floor of that house—wasn’t doing well. I had a feeling our time together was becoming limited.
She passed away on May 7, 2025, the day after my birthday.
Because of what that piece represents, I’ve never considered selling the original.
I did tell Cornell that I had created a limited edition screen print of Grannie’s House, and that a small number of those prints were available.
Without hesitation, he purchased one.
It caught me completely off guard.
To most people, it may have looked like a simple art sale.
To me, it meant so much more.
This exhibition was entirely self-funded, and while I hadn’t sold a large number of pieces during its run, that print sale felt like a small but meaningful victory. It wasn’t just about the sale itself—it was knowing that someone connected with the work enough to want to take a piece of that story home.
Moments like that stay with you.
Not long after, the crew packed up, thanked me for my time, and headed out.
I opened my laptop and finished the rest of my workday.
That’s the reality for many working artists.
Amazing moments and ordinary moments often exist on the very same day.
One hour you might be discussing your life’s work in front of television cameras. The next, you’re answering emails, preparing for meetings, or wrapping up projects before the end of the day.
That’s not a complaint.
It’s simply the season I’m in.
Like many artists, I balance a full-time career while continuing to build the creative work that means the most to me. Both deserve my best, and on this particular day, they happened to overlap.
Fast forward to August 12.
Christian sent me a text with a simple message and a link.
The Creative Focus segment was live.
I clicked on it immediately.
Even though only a couple of weeks had passed since filming, I watched the interview as though I were seeing it for the first time. I found myself waiting for my own answers, curious about what I’d said and how the conversation would come together once it was edited.
When it ended, I had a thought I don’t say to myself very often.
I was proud of myself.
Not because I had been on television.
Because I had sounded like myself.
There wasn’t a version of me trying to impress anyone. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t saying what I thought people wanted to hear.
I was simply Ryan.
Afterward, I started sending the interview to friends and family. I didn’t send one big group message. I wanted to share it personally, one conversation at a time.
As the day went on, the texts started coming back.
People told me they enjoyed the interview.
They said they were proud.
They complimented my answers.
But the message that meant the most was one I heard more than once.
“You sounded like Ryan.”
I don’t think they realized what that meant to me.
In a world where it’s easy to feel like you have to become someone else to be successful, hearing that the people who know me best still recognized me—that felt like the greatest compliment I could have received.
The interview was a wonderful opportunity, and I’m incredibly grateful to Christian Patterson, Cornell Calhoun, and everyone at TV20 who made it happen.
But if there’s one thing I’ll remember most, it isn’t seeing myself on television.
It’s the reminder that showing up authentically is enough.
That’s what this series is really about.
The stories that happen before the final image.
The conversations after the cameras stop rolling.
The quiet moments that never make it onto social media.
Because sometimes, those are the stories worth telling.
Thank you to everyone who has watched, shared it with others, or reached out with kind words. Your support means more than you know.
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