Richard Estes and the Art of Seeing

I’m delighted Derringer award-nominee, Tom Milani, is joining us today to talk about how Richard Estes' paintings inspired him to look at his characters in a different way—a technique he applies both to his novels and short fiction. Here’s more from Tom:

Richard Estes and the Art of Seeing

by Tom Milani

In the late 1970s I was a student at George Mason University in Northern Virginia. The main campus had five buildings, one of which was the Fenwick Library. The library had a mezzanine that housed art shows.

My first year there, I wandered into an exhibit featuring silkscreen prints by Richard Estes. The one that struck me first—and stuck with me the longest—was of a bus windshield. Initially, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t a photograph. But later, I marveled at the reflections, which seemed to reveal a once-hidden reality to me. Estes’s work would go on to play a role in my fiction. More on that later.

Before I saw those prints, my conception of a city’s appearance was at a remove: cities had skylines, unique to be sure, but two-dimensional from a distance. After seeing the Estes prints, I began looking for the reflections he painted. Glass-front buildings I once might have dismissed as having no character now were literal mirrors for their surroundings. Imagine looking through a microscope at a few drops of pond water for the first time and viewing the hidden life there. In a way, that’s what I was seeing.

Estes works from multiple photographs as references when he paints. The result is a perspective that can’t be actually seen from one location but is somehow nonetheless “real” in the sense that every building and reflection exists.

In the 1990s, when I was in Ann Arbor for work, I visited the original Borders bookstore, something of a paradise for my English major soul. There, I found Photo-Realism by Louis K. Meisel, a 500-plus-page book featuring thirteen photorealist painters and another fifteen photorealism-related artists. I think the book cost $65, something out of my reach at the time. When I was on the phone with my mom and she asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I mentioned the book, reluctantly mentioning the price. She sent me $100 because that’s what moms do for their lonely sons.

I pored over the text and reproductions of each artist’s works, never less than awed by the technical ability displayed. Even though his art wasn’t the most photorealistic of the group, Estes still stood out to me, for he’d been the one who changed the way I see.

A few years later, newly single and living in a condo furnished with lawn chairs, I went to the frame shop in the local strip mall to buy some art for my bedroom wall. Leafing through catalogs (pre-Internet), I found a poster for the Estes painting Telephone Booths, in the H. H. Thyssen-Bornemisza Collection. The guys who worked in the shop seemed to think it was cool, which meant something, and hanging it on my wall was a stamp of my personality on the place.

Last year, Places That Are Gone, my debut novel, came out. (It’s currently out of print but in the process of being reissued by a new publisher.) Bennett Wilder, my protagonist, also liked Richard Estes: 

In the bedroom he’d hung a reproduction of a Richard Estes painting of a bus windshield, the surrounding buildings reflected in it like a funhouse mirror. The city scene was devoid of people and impossibly clean. He liked to imagine himself in that streetscape, bathed in its pure light.

Bennett’s feelings represent a kind of Platonic ideal of what he thinks his life could be, despite all evidence to the contrary. Shelley, his wife, views the print very differently: “The painting seemed so cold to her, a world without emotion or any kind of humanity, despite the urban scene.” The collision of their diametric world views will prove catastrophic by the book’s end.

A few years ago, we bought an Estes silkscreen featuring a car hood and windshield in the foreground, reflections of the surrounding buildings spilling across the surfaces like melted wax. It sits above a corner of my desk, and when I stare at it, I’m reminded to look anew at the world and the characters I’m writing about.

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Tom Milani’s short fiction has appeared online and in several anthologies, including In Too Deep: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Music of Genesis and Sleuths Just Wanna Have Fun: Private Eyes in the Materialistic Eighties. Derringer finalist “Barracuda Backfire” was published in 2024 as Book 4 of Michael Bracken’s Chop Shop series of novellas. “Barstow,” originally published in Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir volume 5, was named an honorable mention in The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2025. “No Road Back,” which originally appeared in Black Cat Weekly, was selected for The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2026. His first novel, Places That Are Gone, was published in May 2025.

You can find Tom’s Derringer award-nominated story, “A Sign of the Times,” in Sleuths Just Wanna Have Fun: Private Eyes in the Materialistic Eighties.

 

Learning to Give and Receive Critique

Filling in for me today is Tom Milani, one of my amazing critique partners. He graciously reads my short fiction before submission. He truly has a gift for highlighting ways to improve story and delivering feedback in a collaborative way. His thoughtful notes have elevated my work. I’m delighted he is joining us today to discuss the art of critique.

— Stacy Woodson

Learning to Give and Receive Critique

by Tom Milani

For new writers or writers new to critique groups, reviewing the work of others (and having their own work reviewed) can be hard. I’ve been in writing groups for over thirty years, and I was a technical editor for nearly that long. As a result, I have a lot of experience giving critiques of other people’s writing and receiving critiques of my own. Here, I’ll go over what I’ve found works for me. These aren’t hard-and-fast rules, but I hope these lessons I’ve learned will be helpful.

Dealing with Comments on Your Work

Members of the critique group I belong to typically send a Microsoft Word file with their changes tracked. (If you’re not familiar with Word’s Track Changes function, it’s worth exploring because many acquiring editors will expect you to know how to use it.) I go through each member’s edits and notes separately. I’ll open a file but make notes on my hard copy. (You could do the same thing electronically, but because I’m working on a small laptop, hard copy is easier for me.) I correct typographical and grammatical errors right away. If there are comments, I’ll often note those on the page. In doing so, I’ll find issues that several people have flagged. What if I get conflicting opinions about an aspect of my story? Here, I consider the numbers. If seven people out of eight people point out a potential problem, chances are I should look at the text again. But if the opinions are evenly divided, then I’ll go with my own judgment.

In an ideal world (or writing group), the comments I receive will be given in a constructive, nonconfrontational matter. What happens if the comments are delivered with snark, or worse? Here’s what I do when my work gets criticism that feels personal. I read the comments. I read them again. And again. I continue rereading until they no longer provoke an emotional reaction in me. Then, I look at the substantive portions of the comments. Are they valid? If so, I address them in rewrites. If not, I ignore them. Regardless of how the comments are given, I make a point to remember that someone took the time to read my work and offer an opinion about it.

Critiquing the Work of Others

I read an article on editing that suggested making critiques using passive voice. It’s a nonconfrontational method of pointing out problems. I used it successfully in my professional career and find it works as well with fiction writing.

If I see a problem in work I’m reading, I’ll frame my comments in passive voice. For example: “The text on this page feels like it spends a lot of time describing this character’s appearance, but this is the only scene in which she appears.” Here, the comment is directed not at the writer, but at the text itself. There’s nothing personal in the comment—I’m not questioning why the author wrote what he did—instead, we’re both working to solve a problem. It’s a simple switch in mindset, but one I feel causes the author to look at the comments with greater objectivity. Similarly, if I suggest a rewording, I’ll give a reason for the suggestion and generally follow that with some version of “your words will be better.” I’m not trying to rewrite the author’s prose but to point out where something is confusing or unclear to me. My rewording is an attempt to tease out the meaning that the author intended, while honoring the author’s voice.

What if I’m asked to critique a piece, and I don’t know the conventions of the genre? In that case, I focus on those aspects of the writing that need to be correct, regardless of genre—grammar, spelling, punctuation, and internal consistency—and if something is confusing or unclear, I’ll point it out (again, using passive voice).

Other Benefits

Critiquing other people’s work makes me look at my own writing with a more critical eye. Recognizing how well an author planned a plot twist or admiring how the varied pacing in a story maintained tension has led me to incorporate those elements into my own work.

But an even greater benefit is contributing to the writing community at large. Being a member of a critique group is one way to be a good literary citizen. My experience with the crime fiction community is that it’s supportive and generous—and being a good critique partner is one way to pay that generosity forward.

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Tom Milani’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in several anthologies, including Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir volumes 5 and 6. “Barracuda Backfire,” his novella, is Book 4 of Michael Bracken’s Chop Shop series and was shortlisted for a Derringer award. His short story, "Mill Mountain" was featured this week in Black Cat Weekly, and Places That Are Gone, his debut novel, was released on May 13, 2025.

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