In this series, I revisit feelings from my childhood, from before I left my family, before I had language to describe the incongruity I felt with my home. Today, my doctors have a name for it, but when I return home,
the feeling is still preverbal—a collapsing of time wherein my past and future take up space in the present. It manifests as a metaphorical maze of echoes, and in these photos you’ll find my best attempt to navigate
it. Some of the images were staged, others found, but all of them were shot at a consistently medium distance—close, but not intimate—as an invitation to consider them collectively. To consider the materials of
the maze: the tangled fibers—the knot of hair falling across an ear, the bundle of sticks, the twisted body of an old tree; the florals and textured fabrics evoking the absence of the people who made them, who
owned them, who loved them and wore them to threads; the intersection of natural and man-made worlds, living on top of and imitating each other, reminding us of the difference between growth and evolution.
And the shadow, stark and looming as it moves across the images—progressing even as we pause to consider.