Photography Atelier

The images in this series represent internal landscapes of the human experience – lands full of memories, dreams and secrets. They are visual metaphors that embodies the vulnerability of our mortal nature.

The themes for this work are very personal and come from real places and experiences from my time growing up in Lima, Peru, among them: the end of an idyllic childhood followed by strong societal pressures on young women, feelings of alienation from society and religion and living with fear during the terrorist attacks in the city. Every piece is associated with a particular emotion which is reflected in my work through these images featuring women of different ages. These photographic collages also incorporate objects associated with memories and writings from my journals.

These images were inspired by my personal history but I hope that this work transcends its origins and speaks to our universal humanity.

Crossing the Merrimack

The southernmost bridge across the Merrimack River is 5 miles from my home; the northernmost crossing, at the Veterans Memorial Bridge in Boscawen, NH, is 73.4 miles from my driveway.  There are 43 crossings in between and in April 2015 I decided to make photographs of them all.  There would be photographs from both the eastern and western shores, from below the bridge, and, when possible, images of the river seen from the bridge. Defining the project in these procedural terms was a simple  self-management stratagem, as my preference when making landscape photographs has been to approach each project with an empty mind, allowing the world to surprise and seduce me, and to teach me unforeseen lessons.

This project is shaped by several rivulets of influence, some flowing from personal history, some from the influence of artists I have admired, and some from prior photographic projects. I have for most of my life, sought out the water as a place to live near, to play in, and to contemplate.  Bridges and rivers play prominent roles in the history of landscape art, and an emerging interest in 19^th century Japanese prints, especially those of Hiroshige and Hokusai, has brought me closer to that tradition. Previous work has centered on how bodies of water define urban landscapes or, more generally, the intersection of human intention and geological structure and river crossings are a very manifest embodiment of human intention.

As a former writer, I was always thinking about the words I would use to describe something. The words would guide what I saw and in fact how I saw it. As a photographer, I have to learn to block out the verbal description of a scene and just experience it visually, with no intervening words. I try to see colors and shapes and lines and visual relationships at their purest.

I find that one of the best ways to create impact on my viewers is with strong contrasts of color and light and shadow and darkness. The Dutch masters knew this: I love the way, especially in the chiaroscuro paintings of Rembrandt and his contemporaries, a strong light source illuminates a part of the picture and makes that pop out of surrounding semi-darkness.

Recently, I am finding that, following the work of one of my favorite photographers, Parisian night photographer Brassaï, urban night photography allows me to express that vision. Most large urban areas are visually alive, but I have found Boston at night to be especially exciting. The bright lights pop out of the darkness, and near water and bridges the light reflects everywhere. The downtown, the business district, and especially the Zakim Bridge–all these startle with concentrated light and the deep mystery of the dark.

My images are often dark, but for me, photographer Jay Maisel nails it: “The more light you have in an image, the less drama you get. The details start taking over; the mystery is all gone. The effect of limited light causes drama by leaving most of the image dark.”

Every day we are bombarded with images that the solidify the message that youth is the currency of society. The young are to be celebrated and as we age, we should be moved to the shadows.

I was raised by my Mother and grandmother and was brought up to appreciate and value the wisdom and beauty that age brought.  That message was reinforced years later by my Mother-in-law who, like my mother and grandmother, was beautiful to me in looks and spirit.

As I grow older, I see the effects that aging has brought to my body. It is much different from what society sees as beautiful. Yet I still believe that what makes us beautiful and real are the lines on our faces, the soft shapes of our bodies, and the gray in our hair.

My work explores the affect that aging has on organic matter and how the aging process reveals a different type of beauty. The images include family heirlooms from these three beautiful women that passed.

I hope that my images “uncovers the Real which isn’t ugly, except to those who don’t understand”. (Velveteen Rabbit)

Vanishing Points

I am attracted to corners as places of mystery. Often they are empty and lonely, projecting a negative energy that seems to drive objects and people away. Other times they attract the forgotten, the things no one cares about. Corners go unnoticed and unvisited.

A corner is made up of three lines converging to a vanishing point. Perhaps that point silently draws things into it (including ourselves) until they vanish completely. People have evolved to interpret this pattern of converging lines as depth, which the two-dimensional photographic print then makes ambiguous. Is the corner receding—pulling us in—or projecting toward us—threatening to attack? The presence of pattern recognition in humans has lent us both survival skills and aesthetics, and vanishing points touch something at our core.

The Aging Project

The Aging Project is about being given a second chance, new life and purpose.

I have entered my 60’s, and aging terrifies me. As a nurse I became the main caregiver to my late parents and aunts, I saw very active vibrant people become limited by physical and cognitive deterioration. After these losses, and my time once again became my own, I sought out a diversion. I redirected my energy by renting a small space at the Winsmith Mill Market in Norwood, MA, a vintage furniture co-op. I began repurposing furniture for resale.

During their declining years, I had taken multiple pictures of my parents.  The raw emotion of those times, though years had passed, still made it difficult for me to view the images.  The photographs that I show today have helped me in my transitional grieving.

With each portrait you can see that once the utility of an object is removed, the beauty of the object emerges. With time these beauties will find a new home and even a new purpose. The Mill is a monochromatic background filled with clutter. Within the confusion of it all, it is difficult to isolate any one item. The images that stood out to me were the ones with a bright flash of color set against a very monochrome background. When I reflect on the twilight years of my parents and now my own, I find day-to-day living can also be very monochromatic with the occasional bright flash of color.

The Aging Project demonstrates that aging, though difficult and permanent, can be beautiful.  

Ocean’s Edge

I grew up on a tidal river with brackish water. Against the midwife’s prediction I was born before low tide. As far as I can think back I have always loved the water, and the moment I moved to New England I fell in love with the Atlantic Ocean. And I love photography. All formats and aspects of it.

The photographs displayed here are part of a larger project that reflects my love of water and photography, and embraces the beauty and abundant variety of options that coexist in life, in nature and in photography. They show what the waves have left for me to find on the ocean’s edge. To emphasize their still, mysterious potential I chose the historic Wet Plate Collodion process. The original ‘quarter plates’ were scanned and enlarged for this exhibit.

Interesting Life of Bubbles

I wondered what the camera would reveal if I made bubbles in a glass container by pouring a stream of water into it.  I am a scientist and engineer and I thought that the water stream would drag air into the bowl and, as it filled, form bubbles in the turbulent water.  I photographed the bubbles from above in a bowl and from the side in a flat sided vase.  I was surprised by the variety of patterns of the bubbles and how the light reflected off them.

Photographed from the side, light trails appeared from the rising bubbles in the turbulent water.  I surrounded the glass containers with lights of different color and used slow shutter speed to capture the trails.  I aimed my camera down at the surface of the water. Bubbles formed, expanded and finally collapsed. I could not help wondering if this is what our universe looks like to some far distant timeless observer.  

I began this photographic adventure by taking my camera and wondering, “what would happen if…” and ended up finding the universe in a bowl of water.  Fascinating, as Spock would say.

Yards of Faith

Living on the Somerville/Medford line, I have been fascinated by the statues of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and various saints that often decorate the yards in the neighborhood. In an era where one’s religious conviction is a private matter, I am drawn to these public proclamations of faith from a previous generation that is often the first on this side of the Atlantic. The shrines have been placed in commemoration of a loved one, of a promise made to God in a time of stress, or as a simple reminder of faith. Some of them are maintained with great care while others have fallen into neglect. They may be left behind to new owners that keep them in the yard out of respect or they disappear with a developer’s eye on modernizing.

In photographing these shrines, I have gained a connection to the neighborhood and its rich immigrant traditions.

Dreamed Botany

The growing season in New England can be very short. As a nature photographer, I often visit greenhouses to stay with the green a little bit longer. I thought I would find comfort in the orderly life of the plants living and thriving, kept in orderly rows and beautiful tableaus by the gardeners.

But I found my interest drifting away from the center, towards the edges. This plant that grew between the walls of the greenhouse, that plant that stretched towards the sun, away from the heat of the room, the press of its neighbors. I became fascinated with where the weathered frames of the greenhouse connected with the smooth leaves of the plants. Some days, I didn’t even go inside – what drew me were the light and color of the sun, shining through the greenhouse, a vision of what might be. My end of season visits unveiled a dreaming world within the greenhouse. The plants stretch in unexpected ways, making their own way to the sun. Without words or voices, they make their desires known. I don’t need to know their names to see them yearning for the light, reaching for space, for a breath of fresh air.

The plants of my dreamed botany embody the aesthetic of wabi-sabi. A Japanese philosophy of art, wabi-sabi encompasses the idea that beauty is not perfect or permanent. Change and simplicity are central to this idea. The perfect blooming flower is not as beautiful as the decaying vine. The otherworldliness of the plants is grounded in the scarred glass pane, the peeling wood frame, the rusting metal edge.