Persistence

There are rooms I'll be the last to enter – what a curious feeling that is. In a house completely hidden from sight, up a staircase so rotten it's barely standing, to a bedroom caving in on itself. Here on a mouldy mattress lie two pillows, settled exactly as they were left the last time someone laid here. Given unspoken weight and grand persistence, the half-life of human memory reaching closure. We all want to be remembered, but I find myself wondering why I've always wanted it more than most. From the earliest moment I pointed a camera at something, and decided to take it home with me, I've been aware of just how rare that is. If you've ever sifted through a stack of prints in a thrift store, you've been in touch with the notion of separation. Everything is gone but the memory itself, no way to connect with its creator. Like the opposite of dementia patient, who has life without memory, those photos have memory without life. If I manage to make mine linger together, I've lived up to my greatest hopes.

 

August 24, 2022

Queens County, Nova Scotia

 

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