I opened my journal and started a list. “Things I’ve lost in the last month,” it said.
Following this totally gloomy title was a mountain of bullet points, including more than one boy’s name, a camera with a special roll of film, a coat I loved dearly, a sweet neighbor friend, and my baby blue debit card (which got replaced, involuntarily and without warning, by a bright red one). These days have been particularly rich in loss as I navigate a new chapter of my life. They are rich in fleeting friends and shifts in my foundation and pure, instinctive adjustment.
While I search for anchors to help ground myself, I am repeatedly reminded that, perhaps, nothing about this planet is graspable. And, perhaps, that’s maybe even a good thing. Maybe, as Pema Chodron suggests, “it actually frees us up to see each moment as unique and fresh and each personal encounter as happening for the first time. . . It means staying present with the restlessness of the energy and rawness of the energy rather than always saying or doing the habitual thing.”
Though photography is, at its core, a tool to document — to grasp pieces of the world — I began to wonder if it could be used as a tool to create a sensation of groundlessness, highlighting that which is ungraspable: to create space where viewers might rest in this sensation of the ephemeral and momentary.
This series invites viewers to get lost in that which is distant and fuzzy, to slow down for a moment of uncertainty. The work is rooted in documenting groundlessness; it is rooted in the inherent distance between one being and another, the soft space between all of us that ultimately wraps us into one blanket of blur.