Photography Atelier

Into the Unknown
I believe that everyone carries an inner world—a personal, illogical gallery of
subliminal life, veiled in dreams, shaped by experience, yet composed of more
than memory. Most of the time, this world remains inaccessible, buried beneath
waking consciousness. Perhaps it is what psychologists call the unconscious.

In my conscious mind, I sense the world teetering toward an uncertain future.
Climate change, authoritarianism, and other looming crises threaten to unravel
what once felt stable. My immediate response is to cling to normalcy, to suppress
dread and despair. Yet, these anxieties continue to be processed beneath the
surface, emerging in fleeting ways—through dreams, word associations, and slips
of the tongue.

Lately, my artistic practice begins with collecting objects—not for their material
value, but for their beauty, quirkiness, or quiet insistence. The images in this series
are in-camera compositions of these found objects, arranged as small dioramas
atop my bedroom dresser rather than assembled digitally. This hands-on approach
is integral to my practice, – tactile, real-world constructions giving rise to images
that depart from reality.

While I approach each arrangement with intention, often sketching ideas
beforehand, the images themselves arise from a deeper place. Certain objects
seem to demand inclusion, scratching at the surface of my inner world, insisting on
their role within a scene. The resulting photographs feel dreamlike and irrational—
fragments of the subconscious made visible. I do not doubt that they are oblique
reflections of my suppressed fears, a way for my mind to process what I work so
hard to ignore.

For now, my conscious gaze remains averted from the uncertainty ahead, but
through these images, the unconscious speaks.

Aesthetic Selection is a fine art series of layered flower images, each composition designed to interpose shape and texture, creating a shifting portrait of floral form and botanical detail.

To make these images, I start by photographing living flowers outdoors in natural light. I combine the chosen photographs as full frames, selectively blending the layers using a spatial-frequency-based process.

Every spring, after the long colorless New England winter, I am entranced by the emergence of green shoots, and find the successive waves of blossoms to be photographically irresistible. This attraction is not surprising, for flowers have evolved to be enticingly beautiful. Rooted in place, plants must lure others to assist their reproductive process, to carry pollen from the stamens of one flower to the pistil of another. The beauty and variety of floral forms is the evolutionary result of the competition to attract various pollinators—insects, birds, and now humans, too—with wildly differing sensory preferences and anatomical abilities.

I am far from alone in finding flowers to be an fascinating subject for art: does the world need another picture of a rose or tulip? Yet this familiarity can make us blind to really looking at them; we often simply recognize them, without really noticing the fantastic structure and detail of even the most common place blossom. My goal with this project is to create images that entice people to look afresh at these remarkable botanical solutions to the dual goals of pollinator attraction and sexual reproduction.

Threshold of a Dream is a series of nonrepresentational landscape images whose origins are deeply rooted in my desire to hold the joyful memory of a specific time and a place. These recollections are guided by imagery seen in my pre-dream state – a phenomenon referred to by scientists as “hypnagogia”. Drifting towards sleep, I often see dimly lit and vaguely familiar landscapes. These visions transform in content and in feel–sometimes quickly and sometimes more slowly. Upon awakening, I have unusually clear memories of them.

The digitally composited images in Threshold of a Dream are complex fusions of elements from my photographs of worldwide landscapes. The process involves replacing one section after another until the entire frame feels both mysterious and congruous. The final form, which can take hours of digital play, blurs the line between photography and painting. 

I have walked, photographed, and dreamt in these fantastic places. My hope is that the viewer will take a moment to pause and construct their own story.

Web-based, generative artificial intelligence (AI) was not used to create these images. 

Inheritance is a photographic memoir that ruminates on family, culture and our relationship to the things we keep. 

We all have stuff that has been given to us from our ancestors. The question is, what do you with it all? Do you use it, store it, give it away? What began as an exercise in downsizing quickly became a reflection on my family’s ethos.  As I rummaged, I heard lessons from my parents and realized that each object had a story to tell. Creative, industrious and loving, my family was also bound by an oppressive social code. Some items I cherish and others are a burden to save, yet tossing them feels as if I am abandoning my past. 

I have found myself in a rush of memories, some crystal clear and some murky with time. The old green chair that belonged to my father as a boy, too small and too low to be practical, still sits proudly right by the woodstove. Broken sewing machines, used by my mother to dress her five children gather dust in the closet. Her paintings, his ruby red wine glasses, my grandfather’s ornate dishes from a lost generation, wedding photos, baby photos, outdated anatomical drawings and history books- the list of things goes on and on. Each object tells a story and connects the past to the present. 

My children are not going to want these heirlooms, yet purging is more difficult than I thought.  Like all good memoirs, I hope this reflection resonates. 

 

Land as Theater

When I moved onto new property in May of 2023, I encountered native ancient energy that at times reflected war and greed but also revealed spirituality and love. The only other time I experienced this was in Israel, the land of my heritage.  When I started this artwork, I sought to learn from the energies encrusted in the land; where I live as an inhabitant, my country as an American, and Israel as a Jew.  My larger project has each of these places as a part (where I live, my country, Israel), plus an epilogue with reflections for peace.  Included are samples from each part.

As the events in southern Israel and Gaza on October 7th, 2023 unfolded, my work took on new meaning, and I searched for parallels in time, at least 2000 to 3000 years in each place, to better understand human energy, behaviors, and their belief in God.  I began to think about my place in time, reflecting on whose land it is anyway. Even though I hold the deed to the land where I live, in my heart I know that I don’t own it.  My project is about uncovering the human conflict between wanting a place to call home that expresses one’s roots, and a perceived ownership of land.

My lens reveals small truths that lie in front of me, that a greater understanding of the past embedded in the land is entwined to ultimate peace. Each time I click the shutter, connect to the land, and converse with the spirits of the past, I am committing a political act.  As in prayer, I give thanks and ask forgiveness at once.

FEEL THE MUSIC

The power of music is universal.

Most of us have songs we love. Music can remind us of people, places or experiences that hold meaning for us, as well as evoke feelings of joy, excitement, or sadness. When I Listen to“Mother’s Song”by Gregory Porter, I always think of my mom and how important she was to me in my life.

For this project, I asked people to listen to music that holds meaning for them while being photographed. I wanted to capture their emotions to the music. Some of the songs chosen I knew, and during the sitting, I often found myself absorbed by the melody or lyrics and forgetting I was supposed to be taking a photo.

Just like the many genres of music, many kinds of feelings were evoked, from sorrow to happiness. Some were meditative as they listened, others more physically expressive. Before a session, many people voiced that they were apprehensive about being photographed, however the power of the music moved everyone beyond self-consciousness. Four days after sitting, Brown, ninety-four, told me“Been a long time since I’ve taken the time to enjoy those musical pleasures.” Eight days later Brown passed away.

Self, Preserved

As I march firmly into my sixties, I can’t help but notice (and yes, participate in) the absurd lengths women–in life and on social media–go to in an attempt to stop the unstoppable, aging. We are bombarded with a staggering variety of creams, potions, procedures and exercises designed to keep us young. The results are often hilariously cringe-worthy. More horrifying than if we did nothing at all. Beneath all this lies society‘s demand for youth and perfection, and to erase the physical manifestations of a life lived.Our worth tied to how well we preserve the physical version of ourselves that once was.

Self, Preserved is about the desire to resist time and the folly in trying to control what is meant to change. Using metaphor and humor, I explore this concept by sealing physical representations of women’s body parts (including my own) in plastic. These plastic encased objects become distorted and unnatural, just like we become the harder we try to stop the natural process of aging. The irony being that the more we attempt to preserve the bits of ourselves, the more disconnected we become from our whole, authentic self.

Falling Leaves: Mothers and Daughters

Dear Mom you said you wouldn’t hit anymore love, _____. (sister)

I recently found these words, scrawled in a child’s hand on pink origami paper, buried in a box of old report cards and other family ephemera. The message sent my mind reeling—its words didn’t align with how I remembered my mother when we were children.

Decades after my sister wrote that note, as I sift through keepsakes saved by my mother and grandmother, I am uncovering more questions than answers. I once believed our family tree was strong and historic; now, I see it as fragile, slightly twisted, and missing limbs—much like my childhood memories.

Within these boxes are old sepia photographs—faces of distant relatives, strangers without names or context—along with contemporary images, some bearing the weight of time, their colors fading, surfaces cracked or water-damaged. They are physical reminders of how Memory fades, distorts, or vanishes entirely.

In one old, damaged, and out-of-focus photograph, I am sitting in a light-green Victorian chair in my grandparents’ living room. It bothers me that I can’t pull the image of the person who took the picture from my memory, nor recall the day the photo was taken. Has the photograph replaced the memory?

When I ask my sisters about past events or old photographs, our recollections often differ widely. Which memories are real? Have the stories I’ve clung to—the ones that once defined my sense of self and family—been misinterpretations all along? Despite these uncertainties, I feel an urgent need to reconnect, to piece together the faces and events, even if it shatters what I once considered true.

Falling Leaves is a project with many branches. By combining personal and vintage family images and objects, I create a visual dialogue on memory—both real and imagined—exploring the intricate ties between family, place, and identity. Each piece derived from my ever-shrinking branch of a larger family tree—one that, like memory itself, continues to shift and transform

I ceased making photos for many years. Familial and professional obligations were front and center. As we say (and so often as a woman)–“life got in the way”. Off and on for years, reengaging with photography was on my list of things to do. I could say that I finally had an epiphany, but it was more a simple recognition that I was at a point in life where planning for the future might come with limitations. I could either focus on regrets or check off items on my list. I decided to act. I retraced my steps, poring over an archive of images I had made over the years. Several recurring themes were evident. Light and shadows, often connected to paths and portals that sometimes led to clear destinations and other times were murky in terms of the endpoint. Hints of both movement and stillness simultaneously.

As part of my “re-entry routine”, I developed a routine of local photowalks. I found that I am still drawn to exploring passageways, noting the light and patterns that seem to beckon me. Personal circumstances have limited my travel, but not the possibility of capturing gateways and openings, both obvious and obscure, that might lead anywhere. When we are young, possibilities seem endless. As we age, we may either dwell on the past or focus on the future.

This project focuses on paths and portals that leave us free to choose the endpoint. In my mind, they lead to a past in which I visit with family and friends who are no longer with me, to a future centered on the growth and blossoming of grandchildren, or even to my own continuing evolution. These photos may not pull us “through the looking glass” into a fantasy world, but we can still be challenged to decide where these paths will take us.

In the Garden 

There’s a certain exchange that takes place between the figure and the landscape.  Ideas of blooming and decay, growth and awakening—all synonymous with human change and birth and aging.

Perhaps the ultimate pairing in idea and image is a human portrait with a backdrop of Nature.  This series of portraits of women works to dispel the widespread stereotype of Eve in the Garden of Eden.  

My portraits make visible contemporary women of many ages and backgrounds—showing their strength, diversity, imagination and vulnerability.

Each woman—in a nod to Eve—is accompanied by a garden element—whether set in a field, farm, grotto, yard, public park or indoor setting.                   

Photography witnesses that fraction of a second in which we live and breathe, the instant before moving on and morphing into something different.  Portrait photography in particular brings me face to face with a unique being—whose thoughts I think I contain for a fleeting second—before letting go.