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Who among us hasn’t noticed it—the strange doubling of forms and faces—the echo in the world? The waves in rock, the veins in leaves, the ghostly flowerings of frost. As though God, deep in his labors, had suddenly run out of ideas, or, perhaps, surprised by the loneliness of his creation, had set out, in the eleventh hour, to stitch the world together—the sound of wind to the sound of water, the ruffling of field to the ruffling of fur, the memories of the living to the hopes of the dead. A familiar universe. A sea of small recognitions. A vast brotherhood of thoughts and things. That is what he dreamed. It was too late. It didn’t work. We misread intention as accident, correspondence as coincidence. Only rarely, wandering through this world, did we feel that someone was trying to tell us something.
What can darkness learn from the edge of a thing?
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These photographs are about love, and grief, and comfort. They're from a series of explorations of organic forms (including plants, sea creatures, nests, and bones), isolated by a sweeping beam of light in the dark. They're also a eulogy for a diminishing natural world, a meditation on visual rhythms and rhymes that aren't easy to notice, codes we're not smart enough to interpret, as pieces of the pattern vanish day by day. The process I'm using is somewhat unusual, with digital technology replacing not only the darkroom, but the camera as well. I'm shooting with a flatbed scanner, which offers interesting opportunities and limitations. Unlike a traditional camera, it captures an image by slowly moving both the light and the lens across the subject, essentially lighting and photographing it from multiple angles in one long exposure. This produces a single image stitched together from thousands of tiny slivers, to which I then make endless, minute adjustments. This offers me a view that can't be seen through a camera lens or the naked eye, and illumination that can't be duplicated with fixed lights. It also offers a uniquely detailed view, as I magnify each image and work on it down to a level of detail that will never be seen in the finished print. High-resolution prints can be as wide as fifty-eight inches (image area).
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