Packing. Moving is active memorial, it is constant. The story of the old man and the white horse always began and ended the same. Slipping into dreams of riding backwards and moving forward. I want to make a joke, sometimes. About something visual - what can be funny?
That day we turned the driveway edges into mountains was the same one that ended in trouble. Wells are not fountains and rocks can't make wishes.
I can see her in the corner there, holding a camera. It is pointed at my grandfather, in the midst of a firework display. Totally over the top.
The button of a baseball cap. So precious, holding all of the parts together.
These images were made while packing up various homes and moving to new ones. In a year, there were 3 or 4 of them. With this constant advance came simultaneous reflection - on childhood, adulthood. Memory and myth combined with the perpetual motion of relocation leaves one with leftovers. In an attempt to get lost, I began from one place to find another, again.
Well + Rocks
Because the Night Belongs to Lovers
It's About Time
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