It goes without saying that it’s been a while. But I don’t want to write about that. Before the long silence, the crisis of faith, and the months where I couldn’t even look at the camera, I posted a poem called “fleeting”. Now, finally, I am posting the series of images that goes with it.
I know that I like to write what is an abbreviated version of an artist statement for all of my works, but this one hurts. This is such a personal, honest and heartfelt series, and it has not had the best reception when I got up the guts to offer it to galleries and competitions.
Honesty is what I do, and what I believe in.
I will not ever be the most technically proficient photographer. I will only rarely be neat and clean around the edges. My cropping is eccentric. My focus is deliberately eschew.
Those are not the things I make art for.
Have you ever held your mother, or your daughter, your son or your father, or your brother or sister in your arms and realised how the time has passed? How they are fatter, thinner, taller, more stooped, stronger or more fragile? Have you pulled up your favourite memory of your family and found that it is blurred around the edges, or the middle is missing?
When you learn that someone close to you is suffering, and will suffer more, do you see a part of yourself start to fade? When they start to change beyond recognition and you need somewhere to turn, are there ghosts in the corner of your vision?
This is not just a series about my mother and myself. It is about all of those things and every other change and experience we have ever had. It is our past, present and our path into the future.
For we are Fleeting:
Turned Her Face
Only Have To Ask