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 in the moment.
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 with energy, passion, and devotion.
*This project has been on hiatus I plan to resume working on it in late 2019
This series explores, through sense of place, the shifting culture of Christianity and my own experience of faith. There is a timeless quality to these photos and yet there are glimpses of the present day: a female pastor’s robe & stole, a set of drums and tangled ribbon banner in a sacristy, and a crown of thorns resting on a contemporary sculpture.
In my own life, faith has sustained me. I’ve found peace during silent retreats and during a month long stay at the Abbey of Regina Laudis. I celebrate Christmas Eve at an Episcopal Church around the corner from my house and worship on Sundays at a Presbyterian Church. Although the Bible says, “No one has ever seen God,” there have been times when the love of God has felt so near that it overwhelmed me. But it isn’t always like that.
It was during a difficult pregnancy and miscarriage, that I felt as if God was still there, but off in another room. That disorienting sense of presence obscured often remains, even as I recall the times when I felt drenched in possibility and light.
I sense that presence near when I enter an empty sanctuary, a space hushed and full of the echoes of conversations and prayers which have lingered 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.
I step outside and see reminders of God everywhere: in the swaying treetops, or the glinting river, or the words on bumper stickers, yard signs, or telephone poles. In the wider landscape, out under the sky, I feel small and begin to think we are like little children wearing tinsel halos and catawampus wings.
A while later, I turn down a red dirt road and see the closed doors and curtained windows of an old wooden church. Will it be lovingly restored or replaced with a new metal structure or will it one day crumble to the ground as people re-locate to suburban areas and cities? I pick up my camera because I want it to be remembered as it is now, these weathered walls, this door, that humble steeple, its calm dignity. There is something here, resilience, memory, faith, a whisper coated in peeling paint.
Through these photographs, I share what I perceive as an ethereal sense of presence, alongside themes of longing, loss, and hope. The Song of Songs has often come to mind. It speaks to how I feel, that this is ultimately a love poem.
Answer to the “Gunshots or Fireworks” Game, 2018.
Fisherman’s Chairs, 2018.
Walled Landscape, 2018.
Remembrance in Pink, 2018.
Not on a Sunday, 2017.
Waiting for Tamales, 2017.
Friday Night in the Delta, 2017.
Causeway Cast-Offs, 2018.
She Eats it for the Nutrients, 2019.
Clear Cut, 2018.
Come, All is Ready, 2018.
Gran Ate Here as a Child, 2018.
Bug’s Place, 2017.
Southern Ingenuity, 2016.
Afternoon Refreshment, 2016.
One Day, Maybe, 2018.
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.