Love Could Stay on the Body

Can a photograph actually keep someone from disappearing?

My practice grows from a fear of disappearance, and a conviction that love could be preserved on the body. This work is an attempt to negotiate grief before the loss has even happened.  Growing up, my rituals were never about memory; I wasn't trying to remember someone—I was trying to stop them from leaving. Photography became the continuation of that effort. The camera does not just document; it attempts the impossible task of telling time to stop. It says, "Stay."

When someone drops their guard and allows me into their unperformed space, I am met with a terrifying urgency. Those moments have become the closest thing I know to permanence. Moving continuously through lives has taught me that closeness is always on the verge of dissolving. In those shared spaces, I am hunting for proof/proof that we were here, that we loved, that we were loved, that I saw you, and that I was seen by you. It is a frantic attempt to catch intimacy at its most fragile, right before time, distance, or departure erases it completely.

I photograph other people to keep from disappearing myself.

No. But it remains a physical refusal to be erased.