My daughter left a Chinese proverb on my pillow one night. It read, "You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair." The power and relevance of this statement provided the impetus for the series, Birds of Sorrow. This visual narrative explores the universal emotions of grief and the struggle to find meaning in death. We have all loved, experienced loss and been faced with a complex mosaic of overlapping emotions: anger, sadness, mourning, remembrance. Not beyond repair, we heal – we allow for the celebration of life by looking forward. These constructed images began deliberately dark and obscure, but I found that as the series evolved ... in came the light.
In December my neighbor was brought to hospice. As I held her hand, she smiled and said, "I've had a really full life, and I've tried just about everything. This is one thing I've never done before. So I guess I'll try it once."
This series of images address the nature of family—what draws us closer together, or pulls us apart? We are individuals and yet we are part of a larger whole; and as part of this fluid confluence of people, we grow, learn, mimic and adapt, even revolt. Sometimes we follow the path of those before us, and at other times we chose our own decidedly different way.
What interests me are the ways in which we are inexplicably connected. The strands of one life delicately connected to another. I look for the overlapping ecology of interests, actions and inspirations; and wonder, if in the silence of our own minds, we hide our true selves—the wishes and secrets that contribute to who we truly are.
Elusive moments and unintended ‘reveals’ are what attract my attention and camera’s focus. If I linger long enough, I might be lucky enough to capture a sincere smile, a playful glance, the glimmer of a wandering imagination, a persistent hope – a true self.
She was nestled in a bookshelf among other discarded dolls and old artifacts. Chaotic hair and overdressed in fire engine red, with eyes that followed you across the room. Small in stature but strong in personality, she was mine for $26. Drawn to her complex gaze, hidden smile and seemingly never-ending expressions, I begin work on an explorative self-portrait series, unveiling autobiographical memories of people and experiences. The images consist of (re)constructed moments in time that have been loosely woven together. Windows into the past, they capture elusive emotions and express experiential moments that are simultaneously personal and universal. Memory serves the storyteller as much as it serves the truth.”
“Acquainting myself with abandoned historic buildings during moments of silence – before their rebirth – is something I consider a privilege. Oftentimes, it’s as if the contents of these remarkable structures are mindfully aware of the changes about to take place. Ordinary in their day, today they carry special significance: The keys left on a sink. A flag draped over a chair. Elevator gates left slightly ajar. Hat boxes and broken glass. Weighing stations and other machines of commerce are rusted and hushed.
And so my work begins, capturing the character and temperament of discarded objects and beautiful decay. The images become storytellers, offering tangible proof of lives who labored, learned, convalesced, or worshiped within these buildings.
At an early age and hand in hand with my father, who made his career preserving architectural heritage, I was encouraged to experience these landmarks firsthand. Worcester Vocational High School was no exception. It was a magical place to photograph. Once bustling with students studying trades such as woodworking and drafting, “the Voke” abounded with signs of its former spirit – graffitied lockers, scattered tools, magnificent machinery. Having inherited my father’s love of old things, I turn my attention and camera to artifacts that have been discarded but by no means overlooked.”
