Saturday, September 17, 2016

Lost Photos

Today I had a brief but exciting and inspiring interaction with one of my favorite photographers. As I stalked his Instagram feed, I came across a very simple and beautiful black and white image of a kitchen light. One of those fifties types that look like a carved glass tire bolted to the ceiling. I was instantly transported back to my childhood home, and then this sudden and super intense wave of emotion and nostalgia gripped me and the tears were determined to do what they do. I wish SO MUCH that I had taken some artful photos of the details there that now only live in my memory. By the end, I was so single-mindedly focused on getting it cleared out, and helping my Mom fight cancer, and moving, and trying to settle into a new 30 hour per week job – but damn, I wish I could go back in time and preserve some of those memories.

I thought I had some shots that I could maybe work with, but they all turned out to be snapshots of the evidence of what a crumbling mess it had become, in case the new owner tried to pull some shit (which she was good at).

I'm still looking through the archives, but I found this one in the "Lost Photos" folder. (I can't remember why I named it that.) This was our front yard, just about five years ago, with the beautiful walnut climbing tree – it was English grafted onto black. The tree that passers-by would stop and take photos of. Rightly so. The shed was our pump house. Mostly used to store my Dad's prized garlic and red onions. I was always terrified of the inside, because it housed a well, which I assumed led to the depths of nowhere. 

Or hell. Plus the spiders. OH, the spiders.

This space was so integral in the formation of my young creative spirit. Honestly the kind of thing I don't have words for. You just have to take my word for it.

It's all gone now. I see it five days a week from the perspective of working across the street. What was this stunning tree and cool spooky pump house is now flat dirt and weeds. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the nostalgia, to a point that I'm not sure how to move forward. I put quite a bit into the making of this image, which felt good, because it needed to be just right – just how I remember.