So many below freezing days, and then this storm of heavy and wet snowflakes that stung our cheeks as we walked. The pond, transformed by a layer of ice and snow, was a white meadow ringed by bare trunks. I snapped a few photos and then the wind told us it was time to turn back. Just as we started on our way home, I looked down and noticed: she’d worn her purple sneakers instead of her boots. Silly girl.
My interrupted photographs illustrate the Winter 2015 issue of online literary nonfiction journal Brevity Magazine. Creating images to accompany others’ words is a privilege and a responsibility, as the pairing can either add to or detract from the storyline. Consequently, I clucked over this project like a mother hen, and gave it the majority of my spare time in November and December, to the dismay of those I love. Now this project is out in the world, and I bend to the task of redemption.
A beautiful fog. The pull of memory. I close my eyes and live a thousand lives.
I’m experimenting with through the viewfinder photography again. I find that I still love the feel of the old Kodak and the distortion and noise introduced by the dirty lenses and mirror. I love the brokenness and imperfection and mess.
The above photo was awarded an Honorable Mention by the judges of the 2013 Mobile Photo Awards. This shot will be part of a show being held at the Soho Gallery For Digital Art in Manhattan from February 22-28. Opening reception is this coming Friday night and Lord willing I will be there to take it all in. We’ve needed an excuse to drive up to NYC and this seems like a pretty good reason to make the trip.
Finding nourishing food while traveling in a new city is a challenge, but it’s important to me to not eat junk while on the road. I Yelped my way to Prasad for an amazing dinner of lightly steamed kale, cabbage, beans, avocado and quinoa. I sat at a high counter in the front window and enjoyed the bowl with a fresh green lemonade. Two guys passed by the shop, deep in conversation. One then stopped in his tracks, turned around, came inside and ordered a wheatgrass shot at the counter behind me, his skeptical friend watching through the glass.
We walked. The rivulets running across the path were choked with layers of leaves, mud and twigs, and thick, dark clumps stuck to the sides of my boots. I hugged my camera to my belly and hopped across rocks through deeper, freely running waters. They ran ahead, but I lingered at the sides of the path. Brittle mushroom skins covered a tree with brown, curling scales. I stooped to feel moss and bark. I turned to admire an empty peanut shell in a hollow. A single red berry clung to the end of a dark red, thorny stem. I heard their voices calling to me from deep within the wood. I looked up, and found that I was alone.
We weren’t really lost; we could see the house just across the cove. But the fields were so very cold and muddy, and the winds came off the water and whipped stinging sand at our eyes and mouths, making the evening seem desperate and epic. And so our thoughts and conversation turned to fire and food and warmth and shelter. The Muscari pushed toward the sunset, unfeeling, insensitive to our struggle for survival.
As I watched this day end I somehow knew that I was really watching the end of a season. When we left the next morning, the air had turned much colder. The leaves that lined the turnpike with fire on our way down turned brown and curled in the wake of our speeding northbound minivan.
It’s very strange to see my name in a magazine. But I’m not complaining.