Sad: I guess you’ve all heard the bad news about Kevin Bauman by now…
It’s a heavy day for those of us who knew Kevin Bauman, even from a distance. The news has been circulating fast, and though no one ever wants to believe it at first, it’s now undeniable: Kevin is gone.
When a name becomes familiar—not just in headlines or social media posts, but in conversations, in inspiration, in impact—it hits differently when that name is suddenly associated with tragedy. Kevin Bauman wasn’t just a figure on a screen or a name in a byline. He was a force. A quiet one, perhaps, but deeply resonant. He carried with him a presence that wasn’t loud, but always noticed. And now, the silence he leaves behind is loud enough to echo.
We don’t always realize the significance of someone until they’re no longer with us. That’s the cruel irony of life: the way absence magnifies meaning. For many, Kevin was an artist, a thinker, a friend, a guide. His work—particularly his “100 Abandoned Houses” series—was more than just photography. It was storytelling, memory-keeping, and a kind of emotional archaeology. Kevin had a way of capturing decay not as an end, but as a transformation. He saw the beauty in what was left behind. He honored forgotten spaces with the dignity of attention.
Now, we are left with his images—haunting, textured, layered—and they’ve taken on an even deeper poignancy. Because in them, Kevin gave us a glimpse into how he saw the world: with empathy, curiosity, and a reverence for time.
But beyond his work, it’s the man himself that so many are mourning. Those who had the privilege of knowing Kevin personally speak of his kindness first. He was a person who remembered small details, who asked how your mother was doing, who sent you an article he thought you’d like just because. He didn’t just connect with people—he saw them.
In the creative community, Kevin was something rare: generous without ego, passionate without pretense. He was quick to mentor and slow to judge. And even when he was struggling—as we all do—he remained committed to honesty over perfection. That vulnerability made him relatable, and that relatability made him beloved.
So when the news broke—whatever the exact cause or circumstances—it didn’t matter. The ache was immediate. The loss felt deeply personal, even to those who never shook his hand.
It’s strange how grief travels through networks. One person posts a message: “RIP Kevin Bauman. Gone too soon.” Then another, “I can’t believe it. He meant so much to me.” And soon, a wave of remembrance begins to swell. Photos are reposted. Stories are shared. People begin to articulate, often for the first time, what Kevin meant to them. In death, as in life, Kevin’s ability to connect lives on.
We grieve not just for what we’ve lost, but for what we won’t get to see. The projects Kevin never finished. The thoughts he never had the chance to explore. The impact he was still in the process of making. And yet, perhaps that’s part of his legacy too: a reminder that what we create now matters. That we shouldn’t wait for perfect conditions, or the right moment, or the ideal audience. Kevin didn’t. He simply created—and in doing so, touched lives.
Today, there’s a space where Kevin used to be. A light that’s gone out, but not forgotten. His family, friends, and followers all carry fragments of that light with them now. And maybe that’s the quiet comfort in all this: Kevin’s story doesn’t end with this loss. It continues in conversations, in photographs, in memories shared over coffee and social media feeds.
To Kevin Bauman: thank you. For the way you saw the world, for the way you helped us see it too. For the art, the honesty, the humility. You will be missed, but never forgotten.
Rest in peace.