My daughters push from my womb, pull from my breast, drop from my arms.
My only respite from this constant breaking away is my memory.
I have to sober up from the intoxicating moments of holding my children.
But like postcards from a heavenly journey,
I make photographs to keep these drunken feelings alive.
Initially a simple love story, this scenario grew increasingly more complex. My second daughter came in wailing just as my father began to pass away in a cloud of dementia. My mother, now alone, struggled to invent each new day.
I felt trapped in my domestic bliss. My camera seized on the intensity of the smallest moments and the most inconsequential objects. Pomegranates bled, eggbeaters oozed, my daughter floated face down in her dreams. I photographed everything that made me pause.
The intensity of my daily submergence in family subsided and I can breathe again. Or perhaps I have finally grown accustomed to the rhythm of communal living. When I look at these images, I revisit this altered state of mind that saw magic in milk teeth and sex in watermelon. These simple scenarios of home and family have become my personal icons for the complexities of growing up and growing old.
BETWEEN CHAOS AND GRACE
I am not looking for the heroic beauty of the land, but rather the story behind the grandeur.
As others hurry down the trail, anxious to see what lies ahead, I amble along, considering the specific nature of trees. My slow pace allows me to look at trees enmeshed in their tangled environment, trees left to themselves – trees that have succumbed or have persevered.
In this close observation, I see the life process played out with sometimes sublime patience or, as often, cruel force. The intimate act of photography reveals the fragile balance between dominance and acquiescence, between chaos and grace.