I have a deep love for animals. This leads to joy, heartbreak, and varied emotions in between.
This ongoing series invites the viewer to pause and look into the lives of animals in everyday situations, in ordinary settings, and to ponder what these sentient beings might be feeling, thinking, or experiencing.
All of us who call the earth our home are interconnected and in some ways interdependent. I believe it is through empathy, compassion, wonder, and insight, which I hope this series evokes, that we begin to more fully recognize these connections and our responsibility to care for one another and for our mutual home.
Human beings are absent in this series on the American South, yet their presence is seen and felt. In the stillness, I imagine the stories which linger in remnants left behind, conversations shared around crowded tables, and the people who have paused in each place throughout the years. Tenacity and transience are here, and sometimes time stands still.
As I have wandered through this hot and steamy region that I call home, I have been surprised by beauty in the familiar and enchanted by ordinary details imbued with the mystery of the unknown.
The Rainiest City
As the rain splatters, splashes, drips, and thrums, a music arises unique to each place and to each storm. In a similar way each type of rain creates distinctive visual patterns, and brightens, deepens, or softens the colors we see.
When I look out the window I am drawn to the painterly scenes created by rain. As one who has lived through the destructive power of hurricanes and other traumas, I find peace, strength, and hope in this everyday beauty and grace.
While traveling in the American South, I saw small churches, some the size of one room with a leaning steeple on top; some traditional looking, others quirky. I wondered about these places, their surrounding landscapes, and what they might reveal.
I have found that stepping into an empty sanctuary is stepping into another world, hushed and full of echoes and mystery, a sense of stories and prayers lingering through the years. I sit and listen to the creaks, touch the hymnals frayed from use, and experience a depth of solitude.
Photography becomes meditation in such a space. Everything else disappears. The light speaks to something beyond as it floods in brightly or paints the floor with splashes of primary colors, or flickers dimly from tacky plastic candles. It is, at times, a felt presence.
I step outside and still see God everywhere: on bumper stickers, yard signs, and telephone poles. In the wider landscape, out under the sky, I feel smaller and begin to think we are like little children wearing tinsel halos and catawampus wings.
In this ongoing series I’ve photographed what is sacred. Yet I am also drawn to the mundane, to things that seem a little off, most likely because I see something of myself and of humankind in these less than perfect scenes.