Dear Emily, I am not writing to you. We both know why the bird hovers. I make a new code. Language is one kind of key; you question the decision to take yourself away…
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July in Vegas is a sweltering, feverish month. The days are long and airless. The heat sears itself onto everything, impossible to escape, almost impossible to keep breathing. The mountains are covered with dry dust. The flowers that bloomed during spring shrivel and die…
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instead of marking the anniversary of the day we were wed with dinner, we take our child to the annual lantern festival held at the manmade lake where we remember the victims of nuclear bombing and those we lost the year before…
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The dog is nowhere to be found. On the first day of his disappearance, the boys fan out through the woods, searching. Summer has burst open like a fruit, every tree cloaked in that perfect July green…
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The ocean regulates me. Sets me to its tides. Asks me to surrender to its vastness, holds my body when I enter it without letting go. I remember a day at Point Dume in Malibu with friends, a big swell, but a gentle crash…
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Much of my work begins with using photography as a jumping-off point. In the case of this image, and the bodies of work to which it relates, I reveal the gestures made in digital retouching as a way to both…
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