Griffin News

Following the devastating 2020 CZU Lightning Complex fires, artist Adrienne Defendi began photographing brush piles in Big Basin Redwoods State Park. For the artist, these post-fire accumulations featured in her project, Canopy Constellations, became symbolic of loss and renewal, representing the interconnectedness and the cyclical nature of ecosystems.

In this interview, Defendi speaks about her project’s emotional and spiritual connection to the land and hot it deepens through her chosen medium of toned cyanotypes. The work is currently on view in our 2024 Vision(ary) exhibition.

Adrienne Defendi is an artist whose work explores the cyclical, the ephemeral, and the fragility of life. Her lifelong interests in memory and myth, narrative and nostalgia inform her photographic expression and artistic process. Employing different mediums, from analog to alternative processes and various printmaking techniques, her practice charts elements of loss and ritual, and the boundless possibilities within reiteration and experimentation. An award-winning artist, Adrienne has exhibited her work nationally and internationally, and is currently an artist-in-residence with the City of Palo Alto’s Cubberley Artist Studio Program.

Website: www.adriennedefendi.com
Instagram: @adrienne_defendi

How did the brush piles in Big Basin after the 2020 CZU lightning fires inspired your project?

Adrienne Defendi: A little background to the series: I had documented all kinds of accumulated matter in the aftermath of the CZU Lightning Complex fires in a neighborhood in Boulder Creek where debris was collected for removal. At this time, the piles were made of charred house debris (metal infrastructure, brick, cars, household appliances, and more domestic items,for example, a sewing machine, cutlery, and ceramics). I returned habitually to capture the clean-up effort; the housing lots were eventually cleared leaving solitary brick chimneys standing as sentinels of loss. By spring 2021, the chimneys, too, were gone, to prepare the land for sale and reconstruction.

Similarly, in Big Basin Redwoods State Park there was dedicated and extensive clean-up work, and piles of botanical debris amassed everywhere in and around the park, I continued to document mounds, from the delicate piles of swept twigs and leaves along the Redwood Loop path to impressive piles of cut trunks and branches stacked for their eventual prescribed burn. I hiked the trail along the Opal Creek that had over a hundred piles, each with their own unique architectural beauty, and returned monthly to document them until their prescribed burn. The brush piles, their intricate assemblage, and the deep appreciation for those who created them, are the inspiration for this series.

You talk about brush piles as symbolic of loss, remembrance, and transformation. Can you expand a little more on the power they carry?

AD: Brush piles are a standard practice for general forest upkeep, yet their increased presence in light of the destructive fires struck a deep chord within me. The piles reminded me of burial mounds, marking loss and remembrance, and transformation: fallen and burnt botanical matter was gathered in brush piles to be burned in fire prevention management, and each one signified, for me, a memorial mark of ritual and mourning. For more context, during this same period in my studio I was making my own “Memorial Mounds,” stacks of collagraph prints imprinted with human hair and burn-scar charcoal pigment, asking myself: What is forever lost? Is loss lost forever? Is loss only derivative? When stacked, the prints convey a ceremonial presence, a book of leaves, archived memories, a quiet memorial; when unstacked, they are transformed and create another kind of visual narrative, rhythmic and varied. I viewed the brush piles in Big Basin through a similar lens and appreciated their ephemeral and cyclical characteristics. Since the public reopening of Big Basin in June 2023, I continued to document the accumulated brush piles to commemorate all the labor and care by staff and volunteers who restored the park and conducted prescribed burns of the piles.

We love the questions you asked yourself and how they reflect visually throughout your work. We’d like to ask, how has your relationship to the land evolved emotionally and/or spiritually? And how has the idea of “land” changed after working on this project?

AD: For some time, I have felt a deep affinity to the natural world, to death and dying, to cyclical renewal and possibility. Working on this series focused my art process and intentions, and opened new dialogues for me in regards to environmental issues and the dedicated efforts involved in conservation. In my work, I am drawn to beauty found through serendipity and experimentation, and what is new in this series is how I intentionally curated and privileged the idea of reciprocal care and collaboration in restoring the environment. I returned to the same locations over an extended period of time which allowed for a deeper examination of renewal and transformation.

Your technique is fascinating. Could you explain the significance of the cyanotype printing process in relation to the themes present in your project?

The cyanotype, an early photographic process first used for scientific documentation as early as 1842 (for example, Anna Atkins’ foundational work of botanicals and algae), recalls the photographic history of scientific exploration and archived knowledge. I love the cyanotype’s tactile process and how it allows me to explore imagery with large digital negatives, toning solutions, burn-scar ash, and multiple exposures. Canopy Constellations highlights a cyclical and inherent relationship among the earth, the sky, the forests, and the atmosphere, and implicitly ourselves. As I continued to document the brush piles and their prescribed burn, I felt that sunlight exposures offered me close collaboration with the elements, while also allowing for ongoing experimentation. 

Let’s dive in further. Can you guide us through the process of toning the cyanotype prints in a redwood solution? 

AD: Collecting redwood bark from the proximity of the Big Basin Redwoods State Park and my own backyard, I place pieces of torn bark in a large pot with tap water, bring it to a boil, and then simmer the solution for about an hour or so until the water is an opaque brown red. Straining out the bark debris, I prepare a toning bath in a large tray where I place wet cyanotype prints, soaking from 5-30 minutes, agitating approximately every 5 minutes. Each batch of toning solution presents its own particular hue and reacts uniquely to each print. I often recoat, re-expose, and retone prints in an explorative and intuitive manner, and enjoy each print’s unique evolution. 
 
What inspired the decision to print the cyanotype images in the round and how does this choice enhance the representation of your artistic concept? 

AD: Both the print in the round and the grid pattern are directly inspired by a spherical crown densiometer, a forester’s tool that I fell in love with on a scientific nature walk while on the Art About Artist Residency in June 2023. I held the square wooden jewel-like box open in the palm of my hand with arm outstretched under a tree canopy, which is reflected in a round mirror etched with twenty-four squares. The grid of twenty-four and a series of calculations help assess the density of a forest overstory or canopy. The circular reflection intrigued me, especially how I looked down at the tool’s mirror to decipher what was above; the imagery in the series animates this dynamic framework.

By giving the series specific parameters – the image in the round within a square print – I reference the scientific tool and explore imagery from the sky to the ground in both a representational way (for example, a straight documentation of a brush pile) as well as the imagined (the overlaying of multiple images and exposures) suggesting movement, change, and transformation. The use of the circle evokes our own earth, our observational eye, and recalls the scientific lens of a microscope, monocle, or even binoculars (as in the case of the Mother Tree print with two circles that overlap like a Venn diagram). I am fascinated by the positive and negative imagery in the series which intimates the relationship between presence and absence, destruction and creation, and suggests a world in constant transformation.

The grid is directly inspired by the twenty-four square pattern etched on the mirror of the spherical crown to invite inquiry and to offer a novel way of reframing what we see. The grid pattern speaks to the idea of taking measure of what is above and below, and highlights themes of interconnectivity and cyclical transformation, just as the grid imagery depicts a forest life cycle (from forest, to burnt ash, to regrowth). And pushing this notion further, the work implicitly invites us to examine our coexistence with our own forests, communities, and natural surroundings. 

How do you hope viewers will interpret and connect with the series, considering the environmental themes embedded in your project and the current state of the world?

I hope viewers connect with the beauty and wonder of Big Basin’s revival and of any scorched or damaged land dear to the viewer. I hope viewers consider their own agency in the cycle of life, personally and locally, in their own “backyards” in terms of conservation and preservation (and even one’s own mortality and legacy). Many of the brush piles I captured were built by volunteers dedicated to Big Basin’s preservation, and so many working hands are vital for intentional and visionary sustainability.

In what ways do you see your work contributing to larger dialogues on conservation, sustainability, and preservation, especially in the face of natural disasters?

Perhaps in a very small way the series offers solace, testimony, and hope for recovery. The series Canopy Constellations embraces cycles of transformation and commemorates those dedicated to restoring Big Basin represented in the beautiful brush piles. It celebrates the perseverance and adaptability of the environment/forest itself as conveyed in the ancient coastal redwood, endearingly named “The Mother Tree” or “The Mother of the Forest” (an image featured in the series) that has survived many forest fires, most recently in 2020. It takes labor to chart loss. And it takes labor to move through loss to find resolve and working solutions in our ever-transforming worlds. 

This interview is dedicated to William Mark Sommer‘s captivating project, A Road Home Along the Lincoln Highway. The series of photographs explores the idea of home and what returning to it means after a polonged absence. Sommer’s project is on view at our annual public outdoor exhibition, Vision(ary) | Portraits of Cultures, Communities, and Environments.

Follow William Mark Sommer:
Website: www.williammarksommer.com
Instagram: @williammarksommer

Interview by Vicente Isaías.

Vicente Isaías: At the risk of being trite, let’s begin with a quote. In The Changing American Countryside (1995), Emery N. Castle states that “rural people and places in America are poorly understood and largely neglected” by the people who write and speak about these communities. What are your thoughts on this topic? And how can photography help us attain a less obfuscated vision of these places?

William Mark Sommer: That’s a wonderful quote, I agree. Many of the people that tell stories about the rural experience are tourists in their own right. Though looked down upon as a word now, many people travel to these places for short amounts of time and leave when it suits them; I have also found myself within the realm of being a tourist through a few of my other projects too. Coming and going with a set amount of time, I feel this mode doesn’t lead to giving a full story, much past the story creators seek to tell. Travel is a great thing to open your mind to everything else in the world, it has been for me, but it can only give with the amount of time we give. 

Many of the higher education centers are also located in the cities, which leads to this topic, but one thing I found positive within the connection to higher learning and rurality is the community college system. Coming from the community college system myself, some of my best teachers got their start in education through the localized community college. Though these schools haven’t had as big of a voice as many of the universities, I feel we will start to see more people that come from these colleges that will speak and share more about their home communities.

VI: A Road Home deals with your quest for making sense of the idea of home after having been gone from your hometown. Where are you originally from and what was life like there before?

WMS: I’m originally from Loomis, California and am currently residing here again. It’s hard to think of it in the same way as my childhood. Growing up in Loomis, it was a quiet old bypassed town on the Lincoln Highway. Though it had economic hardships as many of the larger businesses had left the town with/before the bypass with Interstate-80 the business and people that stayed grew the community to make a truly special place. Loomis was a blue collar place where you knew everyone in town or at least had a friendly hi or how’s it going to everyone we passed by. I always fondly remember going into the drug store and having ice cream with my mom or having fun conversations with the family that owned the local Chinese Restaurant. Though not rich in monetary wealth, It felt like a place that people cared about and who cared for everyone else around them too. Though this might be a nostalgic look at my past, I was happy to be raised here through the 90s.

VI: And what about after? And what made you want to leave?

WMS: When I was younger, I had always dreamed about living in San Francisco, whether it was the city’s connection to art, education and skateboarding, I felt pulled there. Moving to the city was a huge philosophical change that shifted my feelings of home and stretched my concepts of place. Though short lived in SF, I stayed constantly moving back and forth from place to place and across states, all adding to my ideas of home but also losing much of what I had in the process.

Coming back home after 5 years of displaced movement all around the west, I found many of the places I frequented within my youth had closed, been sold or transitioned into something else, this gentrification of the came with a broad change of the rural space as a retirement town was built and many of the open lands were subdivided bringing in a more “higher class of living;” a quote used by them. With these demeaning idealistic changes in my hometown, many people I grew up with no longer could afford to live within the town they also called home. 

VI: How did your personal experiences of returning to your hometown and feeling disconnected shape the direction of this project?

WMS: It was hard returning, both personally and creatively, seeing the gentrification of rural space that happened in my absence was really hard to accept. These challenging feelings truly pulled me to seek out the places that remained and were hopefully un-changed. Driving the main street of my hometown, the Lincoln Highway, became my guide to re-find and connect with these places of my childhood. Though finding some places still remaining, I still didn’t feel whole, it was just a small piece to what was and is home, and then Covid hit. As I worked through finding place, I started to reconnect with the community and friends that I was away from. With the pandemic, it displaced me from being able to connect and create works that weren’t affected by the changes of Covid and it severely changed my ability to connect with anyone outside my house. Coming out of this Covid time, I was charged to connect with people of any sort that related to home, from high school classmates, past relationships, lifelong friends and the people I had the opportunity to meet through creating this series. Developing this side of A Road Home, my connection with the people filled that missing piece, and gave me more direction to my search for home. 

VI: I am a big fan of your work, especially of projects like The Loneliest Highway and Dusted. Why did you choose to shoot on black and white for A Road Home? And how does your film choice reflect storytelling/thematic choices when working in projects where color is prevalent such as, let’s say, 66? 

WMS: Thank you for your kindness about my works. I was really inspired to create in black and white after spending years creating exclusively with color film for 66 and Lost Highway. After using color as a thematic device to convey time with the aesthetics of the 30s-50s culture within those projects, I really wanted to dive into the image and focus on the story. When creating Dusted, I started in both forms of film, but quickly fell in love again with the Black and White image through working with the landscape and the people who inhabited those mining towns. Through Dusted, Black and White became my way of seeing creatively and really charged me to think about, see the topic and convey the story within the image as I pursued new projects back home. When creating A Road Home it felt natural to see and document the landscape in a similar way to Dusted, but as I spent more time in the field it took on its own shape.

VI: What equipment are you using to capture these photographs? What cameras kept you company along the road?

WMS: Through this series, I used a Hasselblad 500c/m with a 80mm lens. This camera became my way of visualizing the world around me and helped me work through and create many of my other works too. The Hasselblad has been my favorite camera to work with but I’ve recently been challenging myself and expanding back into old and new projects that utilize 4×5, 35mm and digital too. When traveling now, I keep this diverse range of cameras with me to engage with the landscape in the best way from slow to fast; it has made it an interesting way of visualizing the road.

VI: What is your editing process like, or in other words, what makes a good photograph?

WMS: I feel my editing and sequencing of photos changes between projects, from focusing on linearity to creating chapters for the book to adding a few surprises for the viewer. Sometimes the best photograph won’t work in sequence with others, but it’s about finding the photos that best fit the story. In the creation of this project, I used the road to guide my sequence and development, starting at one end then going to another. Working though this sequence with a book in mind, I feel it takes the viewer through my story of finding home again.

In focusing on the handling of film, I like to work in the darkroom range of editing. I came from a darkroom style of working and I look to focus on keeping the scanned film the same way, but with the added dust spotting corrections too. 

I couldn’t tell you what would exactly make the perfect or good photograph, it’s up to the viewer to find what works best for them.

VI: Highways as metaphors for loneliness and seeking home are prevalent in art, literature, and music. Are there any writers, visual artists, or musicians that have inspired you or accompanied you in your search for home? 

WMS: I feel when developing and working on a project a soundtrack definitely addresses many feelings we all work towards. In the creation of The Loneliest Highway Project, I had Radiohead’s OK Computer and The Bends on repeat as I traveled through Nevada. Those soundtracks truly spoke to me through that time. With this project about home, I tended to switch between the local radio stations, everything from country, 90’s pop, alternative to old school R&B and hip hop. I feel listening to these stations connected me closer with the tastes of different parts of my childhood. It might add to the nostalgic views within this project, but the radio truly used to hold so much in the creation of mine/our music interest. It’s always amazing when you catch that song that fits the mood perfectly at the right time.

Having conversations with everyone pictured within this series helped truly grow, inspired and advanced my ideas the most through creating this work. Asking everyone what home was to them truly gave me a larger picture of what home is to me.

VI: What inspired you to want to “inspire others to cherish these places and moments that feel like home” before they change?

WMS: I feel that my loss of community and seeing so many places close and change, isn’t just an experience for me. Crossing the US multiple times by car, I’ve seen many other communities shift from boom to bust and into growth much like my own. I look for this work to show that these places and people make up my feeling of home and that we all don’t last forever. Please take the time to enjoy them while in the moment, because time inevitably changes everything. 

VI: How do you see this project relating to broader themes of nostalgia, change, and our relationship to place?

WMS: I feel it relates to all those themes in many ways from trying to find the home I have in my memory to seeing how it has changed over time and how it is now a different place that is progressively still moving on. Our feelings of place constantly change through our own perceptions and growth as people, trying to see this place as it was in my memory is futile, but growing with it or finding a new way to envision home in a different context is a more positive creative experience, I look to follow. 

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William Mark Sommer is a visual artist creating along and through America’s Highways. Embracing spontaneity within an intuitive practice along the road, Sommer seeks to engage and come together with these spaces that were bypassed by society, much like his hometown of Loomis, California. In creating photographic works through the road, Sommer seeks to bring attention to the left behind to promote preservation and love of these unique people and rural spaces.Through Sommer’s practice within analog photography, he has earned a BFA in Art Photography from Arizona State University and traversed the United States developing multiple projects that engage with themes of human nature, preservation, empathy and time. Sommer has exhibited and taken part projects across North America and Europe; venues including, The International Photography Hall of Fame and Museum, Center For Fine Art Photography, Masur Museum of Art, Griffen Museum of Photography, Yellowstone Museum of Art, Center For Photography, Midwest Center for Photographic Art, Belfast Photo Festival, Incadaques International Photo Festival, Northlight Gallery, His awards include Life Framer’s First Prize Award Selected by Alex Prager and British Journal of Photography & 1854 Media “Open Walls” and “Decade of Change,” refocus Awards Color Award “3rd Overall,” and a first place in the Still Life Category of the 2023 Chromatic Awards; Sommer has also taken part in residencies with Chalk Hill in Sonoma, CA, Open Wabi, Fredericktown, Ohio and Off The Cost, Online; He has been featured in publications like Lenscratch, Another-Earth, Stay Wild magazine, Lodown Magazine, Aint Bad, Booooooom, C41 magazine, Nowhere Diary, Fiiiirst and Subjectively Objective.

Today’s special feature is dedicated to the striking and beautifully somber work of Diana Nicholette Jeon, a fine art photographer exploring issues of loss, memory, and dreams. With her varied use of photographic formats and mixed-media techniques, When the Stars Fell From the Sky is a project that guides us through the artist’s most personal journey of resilience and grief. Throughout the images, we encounter an artist exploring her past oeuvre, repurposing it to make sense of a series of turbulent and testing events. Jeon’s images — oneiric, visceral, and unabashedly evocative of our most conflicting emotions — capture the layers and complexities of trauma. As challenging as the path might be, Jeon’s work invites us to steadily overcome it by inviting us to look inward and beyond, even to the watery landscapes of our dreams.

Diana’s website: www.diananicholettejeon.com
Diana’s Instagram: @diananicholettejeon

Diana Nicholette Jeon’s internationally exhibited work explores universal themes of loss, dreams, memory, and female identity via metaphor and personal narrative. Solo exhibitions include the Honolulu Museum of Art (HI), Honolulu Printmakers (HI); Blue SkyGallery (OR); Garage Gallery (NY), 2022 and 2020 HeadOn Photo Festival, Disorder Gallery (Sydney, AU), A Smith Gallery (TX) and Kirsch Gallery (HI). Her work has been recognized in award competitions such as LensCulture, Photolucida’s Critical Mass, the Julia Margaret Cameron awards, and Mira Mobile, and published in a wide variety photography magazines. Jeon’s art is held in public and private collections worldwide, including four works in the permanent collection of the State of Hawai’i. Jeon writes about photography for OneTwelve Publications and FRAMES magazine. She holds an MFA in Imaging and Digital Art from UMBC and resides with her husband and son in Honolulu, HI.

When the Stars Fell From the Sky

In ancient Greek mythology, Acheron was known as the “river of woe,” the “river of pain,” and the “river of lost souls.” The Suda describes the river as “a place of healing…cleansing and purging the sins of humans.” For a season of 860 days, my husband left…me, our son, our home. For 860 days, I felt as if I was sitting on the banks of Acheron, awaiting my healing and my husband’s “return from the underworld.” 

We all think we know what we would do when entangled in such a situation, yet the reality is that we have no idea until we are confronted by it. The experience directly affects one’s sense of self, self-confidence, and emotional stability. I was broken; a fragment of myself–I couldn’t even make art. I mourned my marriage and missed my husband while I tried to mitigate the impact on our son. Well-meaning friends told me to “file for divorce” or to “move on and find a new guy.” But I wanted nothing more than to have my family intact once again. 

Desperately trying to find the light while riding a rollercoaster that I never got in line for, I was steeped in the palpable unknowability of a new normal that was entirely abnormal, as if a limb had been amputated. I felt utterly alone, that no one understood, that the pain would never stop. There was no beginning, middle, or end. There just was. There were times of shame or deep sadness, interspersed with interludes of peace. Yet I held on tightly to my faith and hopes. 

My experience ended with reconciliation, but faint scars remain. Consciously reliving this experience is at once both difficult and cathartic. Yet I feel that by sharing my trauma via this work, others experiencing similar grief may feel less alone in their pain, more able to endure and survive it, and ultimately, may learn–as I did–that they have more strength than they know is possible.

What inspired your journey into photography?

I always liked taking pictures; I used my dad’s Brownie whenever he let me. I always took snapshots of my friends or trips during HS and beyond, but I mainly used a point-and-shoot film camera. Later on, when I returned to school, I immediately fell in love with the darkroom. It was magic. I especially liked the purposeful misuse of process or process alterations to change images’ appearance. I also got my first taste of using Photoshop at that time, and again, it was due to the same power to change images to how I envisioned them rather than how the camera recorded them.

What prompted the creation of your this project?

The series was born out of a dark period when everything I knew as my life had fallen apart.

What have been the biggest challenges working on this project and how did you overcome them?

The biggest challenges have been personal. When you work from life experience, you are forced to mentally review the experiences you speak about via the imagery. Psychologists have done research contending that you actually relive the event when you do this. I’ve found that to be true for me. I have to be in a specific mental space to want and be able to go back and relive this particularly debilitating time over and over as I work on the project. It also means the work is slow going. Although it is finished as a series of images, I have been working on making it a book, which I always envisioned from the outset. Getting a combination of three different series merged down to their essence means spending a lot of mental time in that swamp. It is wearying. 

The other challenge is that that period was tumultuous and out of my personal control, like riding someone else’s rollercoaster. How do you give a viewer that experience in a book form that translates to them feeling some of the same experience? What fonts express grief and loss of self? How much writing is necessary to make the point vs. allowing the viewer enough space to impart their life experience on the work? I prefer enigma and nuance rather than making my work didactic. Even though I’ve made the images, I’m still working through these issues.

Tell us more about one or more of your selected photographs from this series.

This book project, When the Stars Fell From the Sky, draws upon work from three different series I have made about different aspects of this unexpected life event. 

Sinking is a a diptych combining an image I shot on at a beach park in Hilo and a self portrait I made in a resort pool on Maui. Both were made during this grief-filled period, and I feel that in their own way, each image is filled with a sense of loss or desperation. Combining them as a diptych adds to that sense. 

Chaos combines an a double-exposure I made of myself screaming with an image I shot in Waipio, Hi. The house had been overtaken by decades of wild plant growth,hence being trapped within it. Together, they spoke to how I felt some days within that dark period.

What drives your continued passion for creating?

My father was a sculptor, I have been around art and museums ever since I can remember. I started making art in early childhood. Being an artist is the essence of who I am as a human. I can no more stop creating than I can stop breathing.

Today we highlight the work of Susan Rosenberg Jones, a portrait and documentary photographer based in New York City. Her work explores themes of home, family, community, identity, aging, love, and relationships.

Susan’s website: www.susanrosenbergjones.com
Susan’s Instagram: @susanrosenbergjones

Widowed

There is nothing like the grief one experiences after a life partner passes away. When Susan Rosenberg Jones lost her first husband in 2008, she searched for books and articles addressing this loss. She was looking for suggestions on coping techniques from others who’d been widowed. There wasn’t much.

She remarried in 2012. After focusing on her loving relationship with her second husband, Joel in her body of work Second Time Around, she realized that her feelings about her first husband’s passing were still evolving, bubbling up occasionally at random times.

Since March of 2018, she meets with widows and widowers of all ages, gay and straight, having been in legal marriages or in committed partnerships. They have a conversation, recorded for accuracy, and she makes the portrait. A printed statement from the subject accompanies each photograph. This process is emotionally satisfying as she and her sitters examine together how a marriage can shape a person moving through life. Rosenberg Jones hopes that by sharing their stories, those suffering this profound loss – whether recently or not – will take comfort in recognition and shared experience.

What inspired your journey into photography?

I started very young. As a child, I would peruse my parents’ books and magazines that were on low shelves I could reach. There were several Coronet magazines that had photography features: Steichen, Stieglitz, Edward Weston, etc. I would stare at those photographs for hours.

Then a local mom noted my interest in photography – I had been wandering about the neighborhood, using my Brownie camera – and gifted me with a “how to” book of photography. 

I loved that book and used its guidance to set up my first portrait shoot – my little brother and a neighborhood girl. My brother still hates this picture – sorry, Bill! 

Later, when I was a young teen, I was exploring an old graveyard in Boston with a friend, and a kid with a camera around his neck approached us and took us to a place called the Boston Film Center, where a wonderful man taught kids for free to use cameras, and develop, and print. That was it for me! 

What prompted the creation of your project Widowed?

I lost my husband of 32 years in 2008, and after he passed, I tried to find books that would help me process the mix of feelings I was experiencing. I was only 57 and none of my friends were losing their partners at that stage. I felt alone and there was nothing I could find that could speak to me. I wanted to hear what others in my situation would have to say.

Then after I remarried, I began photographing my husband Joel, culminating in Second Time Around. I still felt there was a story I needed to tell, so I started work on Widowed – which was then titled Widow/er.

My objective from the very beginning was to create a book like what I wished I’d had when my husband died. There is no book, but the body of work as it was presented at the Griffin and as appears on my website is in the form that suits my intention.

Tell us more about one of your selected photographs.

This image of Darrell was my first in the Widowed series. It was in March of 2018. We arranged for me to visit Darrell at home. His partner of 25 years, Roger had died a year and a half before our meeting. Darrell set his coffee table with champagne flutes, cheese, and fruit exactly as he and Roger would have it on their Saturday nights before going out for the evening. The lighting that day was difficult as the weather outside was grey and rainy and there was little light inside. Looking at it now, I see the environment’s rich colors and muted tones reflecting Darrell’s mood.

How has your project Widowed evolved since your exhibition at the Griffin?

Since my exhibition at the Griffin, my project has grown to feature 51 participants. A couple of years ago I organized the project on my website and now the statement of the participant appears under each portrait. I also added in a “recommended reading” page, a page of poetry, a “helpful links” page, and a “participate” page inviting potential sitters. 

I also started an Instagram page for Widowed that links from my Instagram page. I’m still interested in making a book, but the right opportunity has not yet come along.

 I haven’t been actively seeking participants at this stage but will gladly welcome anyone interested to contact me. I take pleasure in the process of making these portraits and talking with my sitters.

One gratifying aspect is that several of my widows have contacted me since their portrait sessions, telling me they started to date, met someone, still looking, etc. I love keeping in touch.

What have been the biggest challenges for you as a photographer and how did you overcome them?

I’ve had all sorts of challenges as a photographer:

Being short and looking upward at my subjects – I would love to be taller than them but even eye level would be great. A stepstool or looking at someone sitting down – there’s always a solution.

With certain of my projects, I contact people to sit for me. Many times, they say “no”, and that can be a challenge. I try and stay flexible, as the nature of a series can be shaped by its participants. So, I need to let it flow as it comes with respect for the process, and for the people who do participate.

Keeping things fresh and getting out of my comfort zone is an ongoing challenge. To get out of a real or perceived rut, I either take a break and immerse myself in reading fiction, or take my camera to Coney Island and photograph the people, the colors, the excitement – and that revives my spirit.

What drives your continued passion for creating?

I get a visceral thrill when photographing, editing, and sequencing. People sometimes remark that I’m smiling when taking their picture. And it’s that being “in the zone” that drives me to do it again and again.

At this stage in my life (I’m 72), I’m not climbing a ladder or trying to prove myself out there. Margaret Mead said, “There is no greater power in the world than the zest of a postmenopausal woman.”  She was right! I have the energy for creative activities now just like when I was a teenager.

I love all the arts and find viewing art, reading fiction, seeing plays and films, and dance stimulating. I also love being with friends and in my various community circles. I derive ideas and inspiration from all of it.