between a [lava] rock and a hard[er] place
(2008 - 2011)
Following the unexplained suicide of a childhood friend from home, I was drawn back to the rural community in central Oregon in which I grew up. After fourteen years of having anticipated the day when I could leave small-town life forever, I felt guilty about having achieved this goal, only to question my choices in the aftermath of tragedy.
A camera was a blessing, allowing me to place a lens between myself and my grief. Quietly, I would extend the legs of my tripod and unfold my wooden field camera. Under the shelter of a dark hooded jacket, I peered at empty, yet familiar places projected onto the ground glass, the sanctity of isolation unbroken by
chattering neighbors and curious passersby. I took my time in these places I most strongly associated with loss, slowly coming to terms not only with the guilt of not being present but regaining an appreciation of what I had so willingly left behind.
Following the unexplained suicide of a childhood friend from home, I was drawn back to the rural community in central Oregon in which I grew up. After fourteen years of having anticipated the day when I could leave small-town life forever, I felt guilty about having achieved this goal, only to question my choices in the aftermath of tragedy.
A camera was a blessing, allowing me to place a lens between myself and my grief. Quietly, I would extend the legs of my tripod and unfold my wooden field camera. Under the shelter of a dark hooded jacket, I peered at empty, yet familiar places projected onto the ground glass, the sanctity of isolation unbroken by
chattering neighbors and curious passersby. I took my time in these places I most strongly associated with loss, slowly coming to terms not only with the guilt of not being present but regaining an appreciation of what I had so willingly left behind.