Passing Through
The relationship between the light that enters my house and the light that shines on surrounding landscapes is my inspiration. Sunlight brings warmth and radiance. Morning washes across my bedroom wall as the sun rises above nearby pines and oaks. At dusk, my hallway glows crimson and orange while outside golden pine needles float on pools of still water. By placing an interior photograph beside one from a forest or marsh, I marry the inside with the outside, expanding what the images might mean as colors and shapes echo between them. While I began Passing Through in 2019, the ongoing pandemic has imbued my work with new meaning. Like many others, I spend more time at home, more time alone, and more time appreciating the people and places that I care about.
Grainlines
My family made dresses in New York’s garment district. As a child, I loved examining the style samples, trousseau nightgowns, and veiled hats worn by my mother and aunt. In Grainlines, I celebrate them, the makers and wearers of these clothes. Turning each garment inside out and gently prying apart seams, I photograph the details of hand stitching and pattern construction. Reinforced hems, loose threads, and worn fabric are enduring symbols of my mother and aunt’s sense of fashion, toughness and resilience. Outlasting their wearers, these garments are my tangible links to their lives. As my family grows, I pull the thread forward to the next generation to include clothing made by my daughter.
Paper World
During the early lockdown months of Covid-19, I was unable to visit my mother who had lived gracefully with Alzheimer’s Disease for nearly a decade but was now nearing the end of her life in a thankfully wonderful Assisted Living Residence. Feeling confined and powerless, I turned to my photography for some space. Using only paper, I constructed small sunlit structures: A page torn from a notebook became a roof, a faded pack of construction paper standing on end a courtyard, paper-cutter scraps an entryway. Observing the light in my imagined world comforted me while I waited.
Light House
Nothing is less photogenic than a bare wall, a corner, or a doorframe. Until the wall is painted Chinese lacquer red, deep blue, or mustard yellow. Until rosy-fingered Dawn passes through the window, and red becomes orange. Until the 'golden hour' turns one side of a corner turquoise and the other white. Then a light green oval appears with sfumato edges. Cherry red windows shine on the dark red wall, and a sharp edge curves. The light moves fast--and I move fast to catch it.
The relationship between the light that enters my house and the light that shines on surrounding landscapes is my inspiration. Sunlight brings warmth and radiance. Morning washes across my bedroom wall as the sun rises above nearby pines and oaks. At dusk, my hallway glows crimson and orange while outside golden pine needles float on pools of still water. By placing an interior photograph beside one from a forest or marsh, I marry the inside with the outside, expanding what the images might mean as colors and shapes echo between them. While I began Passing Through in 2019, the ongoing pandemic has imbued my work with new meaning. Like many others, I spend more time at home, more time alone, and more time appreciating the people and places that I care about.
Grainlines
My family made dresses in New York’s garment district. As a child, I loved examining the style samples, trousseau nightgowns, and veiled hats worn by my mother and aunt. In Grainlines, I celebrate them, the makers and wearers of these clothes. Turning each garment inside out and gently prying apart seams, I photograph the details of hand stitching and pattern construction. Reinforced hems, loose threads, and worn fabric are enduring symbols of my mother and aunt’s sense of fashion, toughness and resilience. Outlasting their wearers, these garments are my tangible links to their lives. As my family grows, I pull the thread forward to the next generation to include clothing made by my daughter.
Paper World
During the early lockdown months of Covid-19, I was unable to visit my mother who had lived gracefully with Alzheimer’s Disease for nearly a decade but was now nearing the end of her life in a thankfully wonderful Assisted Living Residence. Feeling confined and powerless, I turned to my photography for some space. Using only paper, I constructed small sunlit structures: A page torn from a notebook became a roof, a faded pack of construction paper standing on end a courtyard, paper-cutter scraps an entryway. Observing the light in my imagined world comforted me while I waited.
Light House
Nothing is less photogenic than a bare wall, a corner, or a doorframe. Until the wall is painted Chinese lacquer red, deep blue, or mustard yellow. Until rosy-fingered Dawn passes through the window, and red becomes orange. Until the 'golden hour' turns one side of a corner turquoise and the other white. Then a light green oval appears with sfumato edges. Cherry red windows shine on the dark red wall, and a sharp edge curves. The light moves fast--and I move fast to catch it.