Dejaview

Why are we so conflicted about nature? On the one hand, we profess to love beautiful spaces yet we often neglect those very areas.

This series—shot in an office park with eight large commercial buildings set back from a tall grass and tree-filled area about fifty yards from a commuter rail– is a good example of this contradiction. In late summer, I noticed only the manicured bushes and geometric angles of the buildings. But with the fall rain and vanishing leaves, behind the neat frontage of brick structures and bushes, I saw a pool-filled wetland sandwiched between carelessly abutting parking lots, an access road, and the railroad. This space, casualties of the development, contained generators, oversized trash containers with strewn trash, and severed trees and foliage.

When I began this project, I shot in rich color, which seemed to romanticize the buildings and space. Black and white neutralized the setting and I felt that the square format focused the viewer. Early morning and late afternoon light highlighted the blight. Fog or cloudiness seemed to flatten the landscape, making it feel more personal and allowing the viewer to enter into the story. The photographs contain open spaces with some dramatic details in a rich tonal range partially obscuring the buildings in a distance. Some include elements in the foreground—a road, telephone pole, broken trees, dumpsters, dirty snow pushed into the wetland pools–that echo the cold, human-made structures in the background. In others there is an interplay of tone and shape or visual compressing–the mass of the buildings, the oversized generators only partially hidden by trimmed bushes , or a corner of a large building extending way beyond the frame.

Revitalize
My project comes from a place of intuition. I like to wander and observe the small moments in daily life.  I would call myself a street photographer without “the street”.  During this unprecedented year, I found myself often alone in rural NH observing a new environment.  I discovered the graphic and abstract images in these new surroundings. I also noticed that here, things appear to be used and then revived and used again.  There is beauty, reflection, and nostalgia contained within these items.  I found myself looking at old cars that were not “show pieces” but still functioning and useful objects.  Aging genuinely yet gracefully is wonderful to observe and capture!

Carbon Copy
My daughter Rose: she is of me, like me, and more than me. The ways in which we resemble one another outwardly are echoed in the ways we resemble each other inwardly, each similarity and difference a conversation that carries on between us moment by moment – sometimes unspoken and sometimes shouted at the top of our lungs. In my relationship with Rose I see my relationship with myself more clearly. I see my past relationship with my mother, which was sundered by my tumultuous teen years. So much of this mother/daughter relationship is built on unending transition. As she grows into womanhood, I grow into middle age. I feel my own insignificance looming on the horizon. And while I know she will pull away from me, I want to make sure she comes back as my best friend.

Seeing in Threes
I have always been fascinated by the beautiful and complex structures found in nature. New patterns emerge as you move closer and closer to a tree or flower. This collection of botanical triptychs was inspired by the work of Brigitte Carnochan. I was attracted to her philosophy that people tend to look at photographs of familiar subjects too quickly and that we should try to slow the viewer down to appreciate the beauty of the natural world in more detail. Normally, when we look at a photograph our eyes move from place to place absorbing it in pieces that are assembled into a complete image in our minds. Physically dividing a picture into a triptych adds an additional step to this process by allowing each panel to be viewed and appreciated on its own as well as a part of a whole. For me this is particularly effective for botanical images because, although patterns and structures are repeated, they are seldom repeated in exactly the same way – every flower and every leaf is unique.

Vision of Trees
After growing up in Brooklyn, I spent a portion of my 20s homesteading in the woods of New Hampshire. For me, at that time, trees were either utilitarian (think, firewood) or romantic (think Walden Pond). Now as I walk around urban ponds in Boston, I find myself reconnecting to my experiences with the natural world, in particular the slow but relentless energy of trees.

I am attracted to trees as sculptural forms: the grace of limbs, the history of roots, the wounds of encounters with weather or humans, how their appearance changes with seasons and weather. All of these combine to provide an array of forms that seem to transcend my earlier descriptions and become worth looking at closely for their own sake.

I focus on the stories trees tell: about their own lives, their interactions one another and with humans. I aim to highlight the grace and tenacity of these living beings with which we share the planet.

Invisible Threads
I came across stacks of taped up cardboard boxes found while clearing out my mother’s house, hidden away in closets not opened for years. These boxes held family memories and small pieces of family history – framed photos, letters and scrapbooks in spidery handwriting. They also held clues to lives led long ago – a well loved book, my mother’s favorite purse, a pin worn by my grandmother, spectacles belonging to a great grandfather. Invisible Threads is a visual narrative about connections and identity found through family stories, childhood memories and personal ephemera. The blending of past and present that helps us see we’re part of an ongoing story. Through these images I am able to piece together and remember the stories my mother told me when I was young. I hope to continue the family narrative with my own daughter. The prints in this collection have all been hand printed using the platinum palladium process which I feel adds to the message that time has passed. 

Dancing Alone
Worlds apart from my typical street photography, the abstract water-centric images of “Dancing Alone” grew out of a quest for sweet visual lemonade diametrically opposed to the bitter and lonely emotional landscape of Covid-19.

In March 2020, the pandemic cut me off from the creative urban energy that had powered my art during regular visits with family and friends in Dublin and cities along the East Coast. Then the virus infected my 94-year-old mother; in early April she died.

As I ached from the rawness of those profound losses, photography offered little solace.

Yet in the spring, abstract patterns partially hidden outdoors near my home unexpectedly caught my attention. Experiments with a close-up filter heightened their attraction and helped nudge my photography in a new direction – one that examines the playful interaction between water and a variety of elements, including air, glass, acrylic ink, food coloring, and oil.

These unchoreographed dances and the intrigue they foster have shed light on a liberating photographic path forward, even within the confines of a still uncertain future.

 

American Decor
After a tumultuous year filled with isolation and conflict I went in search for the innocence and optimism that I’ve always associated with our country’s population, even as we hold different views, beliefs or come from varied backgrounds. I found signs of this in the charm of a humble worn hobby horse, the joy of yards adorned with multitudes of statues and inflatables, the pride of craftsmanship in wooden cutouts and faith in a modest creche. The many different perspectives on what constitutes beauty or humor continue to intrigue me and draw me to a door to find who lives or works there. Rarely have the residents turned down my request for a quick portrait, instead they stand with dignity and pride, humor or mystery, alongside or in front of a fictional world created for us to enjoy.

My intention was to avoid judgment. Instead I felt the need to search for a connection to people who share my country, and regardless of beliefs, views or background chose to celebrate life during a pandemic.

The time I spend with each person is brief as I keep social distancing in mind. I interfere minimally looking for a natural straightforward pose, attempting to allow the people and their decorations to speak quietly and honestly about what they may be saying with the items they’ve chosen to display.

All the Fish in the Sea
Every year, billions of pounds of plastic end up in the world’s oceans. At current rates, plastic is expected to outweigh all the fish in the sea by 2050. All the fish. Outweighed. Our collective disregard for the impact of plastic on the environment has left us on the brink of disaster.

When plastic first entered the market several decades ago, cheap production costs for manufacturers and convenience for consumers were considered a winning combination. As the environmental price of this convenience has become clear, we have done little to curb our use of plastic, and remain dependent on plastic as a cheap and seemingly necessary convenience.

Our relationship with plastic must change. Current discourse revolves around consumers curbing their consumption habits, sometimes with a nudge from the government, and maybe a local ban on plastic bag use. At best, these discussions and ordinances may create a minimal decrease in the consumption of certain plastic products. Any truly impactful solution can only be achieved by regulating production worldwide.

It is estimated that two million plastic bags are used worldwide every minute. I used one of those bags in these photographs of my daughters and myself. We all know that we should recycle, reduce, and reuse. Have I improved the world that I am leaving to my children by reusing this plastic bag?

In His Shoes
I recently chased my dog Teddy to retrieve my husband’s shoe when I realized that it was my son’s shoe.  Since the shoes are similar in size and style (size 10 black dress shoe), it occurred to me at that moment that my 18-year-old son was a man, and more to the point, his father’s son.

We are on a treadmill – parents helping children grow, forever on the run.  The diapers, bottles, birthdays, homework, camp, sports, driving lessons…  Since 18 years had passed in a blur, I felt compelled to record and sequence the transformation from boy to man as my son followed in his father’s shoes.  From infant to high school graduate, years were compressed.   What makes a good father?  Where does time go?