I.  Equinox
       
     
   
  
 
  
    
  
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    Mom & Dad, 2016
       
     
  In the Elms, 1930
       
     
_DSC8080.jpg
       
     
II.  Terra Incognita
       
     
 Grandma And Her Blue Eyes, 2015
       
     
 Reclamation, 1957
       
     
_DSC7932.jpg
       
     
_DSC8168.jpg
       
     
 Window Where You Watched, 2016
       
     
 The landscape resists slipping into the darkness of winter unrecognized as the crimson trees sway passionately in the wind like fire for their final act.   An indistinct transition between seasons; an indistinct light riding in the wake of darkness.    The spring air is not nearly as awakening without knowing the obscurity of winter’s breath.    
  
 
  
    
  
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 Night Embers (Nothing and Everything), 2016
       
     
 Tides in Time, 2016
       
     
 Orion, 2016
       
     
DTH014.jpg
       
     
 Erasure, 2016
       
     
_DSC6929.jpg
       
     
 Something Graceful About Falling, 2016
       
     
20130709-_DSC8437.jpg
       
     
20130710-_DSC8643.jpg
       
     
_DSC7334.jpg
       
     
 Sapling, 2016
       
     
 Eclipse, 1957
       
     
 Current, 2016
       
     
   
  
 
  
    
  
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     “A little while and I will be gone from among you.  Whither, I cannot tell.  From nowhere we came; into nowhere we go.  What is life?  It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.  It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”                                                                  -Last words of Crowfoot, 1890
       
     
McDonald23.jpg
       
     
 Final Flight, 2015
       
     
_DSC5733.jpg
       
     
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_DSC4523.jpg
       
     
_DSC4336-2.jpg
       
     
 Reach, 2015
       
     
 Illumination, 2016
       
     
 Passage, 2015
       
     
McDonald26.jpg
       
     
_DSC5641.jpg
       
     
 Behold, 2015       
  
 
  
    
  
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      Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night        By Dylan Thomas    Do not go gentle into that good night,   Old age should burn and rave at close of day;   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,   Because their words had forked no lightning they   Do not go gentle into that good night.    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright   Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,   And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,   Do not go gentle into that good night.    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight   Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    And you, my father, there on the sad height,   Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.   Do not go gentle into that good night.   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
       
     
 Seer of the Unseen, 2015    
  
 
  
    
  
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     An Excerpt from T.S. Eliot’s   Little Gidding     “We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring    Will be to arrive where we started    And know the place for the first time.    Through the unknown, unremembered gate    When the last of earth left to discover    Is that which was the beginning;    At the source of the longest river    The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree    Not known, because not looked for    But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.”
       
     
I.  Equinox
       
     
I. Equinox

 

Life feels intensely in between lately.  Somewhere between youth and old age, between where I was and where I’m going.  Life itself is in between, drifting in the middle of two voids of time only imaginable to me as darkness and nothingness. Photography defies this absence of light surrounding our own lifespan.  A photograph is born from darkness by light, from nothing into everything.  Although photography illuminates a time in the world I am unable to see with my eyes, it only reveals a glimpse rather than a totality. Photographs serve as a looking glass onto a world that time and memory prevent me from ever visiting.  I will never fully know their truths but I can dream about them. 

 

Looking at a photograph taken one-hundred years ago, I see a woman whose DNA I share.  We could not be father apart or closer together. If my visual history in photographs had a singularity or a precise beginning of time, this woman, her house and its surrounding land would be the origin of infinite expansion that ultimately led to me.  Although my own life stems directly from this woman, she is as distant and incomprehensible to me as regions in the outer boundary of our solar system.  Photography and astronomy both possess elements of conjecture and refutation that invest in a desire to reveal to us our origins, perhaps even our fate, individually as well as globally.

 

In 1930 a young astronomer named Clyde Tombough discovered a shifting point of a light on a series of photographic plates of the night sky suddenly connecting the world to a place 3 billion miles away.  Pluto.  Like a flashlight in the dark, this photograph revealed a place that was latent to the limited vision of human eyes.

 

On July 14th, 2015, nine years after its launch into space, a space probe produced images that revealed the true state of a place depicted as a mere ball of light in the photographs taken eighty-five years before. Although Pluto is not considered a planet anymore, it will always be a planet in my heart.  That light will always be imagined as lonely blue planet I learned about in grade school, the styrofoam ball painted blue that lived on the last ring of my model of the solar system. The conceptualization of this planet’s reality was no less meaningful than its actuality.  A place that was felt, rather than seen was the truest to me. 

 

A photograph taken around the same time period as Pluto’s discovery shows a version of my great-grandmother I never knew.  She stands enveloped in thicket of fallen trees, fading into the inescapable leaves and branches.  I see her disappearing before I have even known her. A part of me feels like I would have taken this photograph if I were there with her.  I wondered about this young woman in the trees, now hidden under her age and deep wrinkles in 2015 as I held her hand and saw her disappear once more.

   
  
 
  
    
  
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    Mom & Dad, 2016
       
     

Mom & Dad, 2016

  In the Elms, 1930
       
     

 In the Elms, 1930

_DSC8080.jpg
       
     
II.  Terra Incognita
       
     
II. Terra Incognita

Limbo, 2015

 

Just as a swimmer, who with his last breath
flounders ashore from perilous seas, might turn
to memorize the wide water of his death -

so did I turn, my soul still fugitive
from death's surviving image, to stare down
that pass that none had ever left alive.

Dante Alighieri, Inferno

 Grandma And Her Blue Eyes, 2015
       
     

Grandma And Her Blue Eyes, 2015

 Reclamation, 1957
       
     

Reclamation, 1957

_DSC7932.jpg
       
     
_DSC8168.jpg
       
     
 Window Where You Watched, 2016
       
     

Window Where You Watched, 2016

 The landscape resists slipping into the darkness of winter unrecognized as the crimson trees sway passionately in the wind like fire for their final act.   An indistinct transition between seasons; an indistinct light riding in the wake of darkness.    The spring air is not nearly as awakening without knowing the obscurity of winter’s breath.    
  
 
  
    
  
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The landscape resists slipping into the darkness of winter unrecognized as the crimson trees sway passionately in the wind like fire for their final act. 

An indistinct transition between seasons; an indistinct light riding in the wake of darkness.  

The spring air is not nearly as awakening without knowing the obscurity of winter’s breath.


 Night Embers (Nothing and Everything), 2016
       
     

Night Embers (Nothing and Everything), 2016

 Tides in Time, 2016
       
     

Tides in Time, 2016

 Orion, 2016
       
     

Orion, 2016

DTH014.jpg
       
     
 Erasure, 2016
       
     

Erasure, 2016

_DSC6929.jpg
       
     
 Something Graceful About Falling, 2016
       
     

Something Graceful About Falling, 2016

20130709-_DSC8437.jpg
       
     
20130710-_DSC8643.jpg
       
     
_DSC7334.jpg
       
     
 Sapling, 2016
       
     

Sapling, 2016

 Eclipse, 1957
       
     

Eclipse, 1957

 Current, 2016
       
     

Current, 2016

   
  
 
  
    
  
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     “A little while and I will be gone from among you.  Whither, I cannot tell.  From nowhere we came; into nowhere we go.  What is life?  It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.  It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”                                                                  -Last words of Crowfoot, 1890
       
     

 “A little while and I will be gone from among you.  Whither, I cannot tell.  From nowhere we came; into nowhere we go.  What is life?  It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.  It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”

                                                                -Last words of Crowfoot, 1890

McDonald23.jpg
       
     
 Final Flight, 2015
       
     

Final Flight, 2015

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 Reach, 2015
       
     

Reach, 2015

 Illumination, 2016
       
     

Illumination, 2016

 Passage, 2015
       
     

Passage, 2015

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 Behold, 2015       
  
 
  
    
  
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      Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night        By Dylan Thomas    Do not go gentle into that good night,   Old age should burn and rave at close of day;   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,   Because their words had forked no lightning they   Do not go gentle into that good night.    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright   Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,   And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,   Do not go gentle into that good night.    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight   Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    And you, my father, there on the sad height,   Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.   Do not go gentle into that good night.   Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
       
     

Behold, 2015

 

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 Seer of the Unseen, 2015    
  
 
  
    
  
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Seer of the Unseen, 2015

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     An Excerpt from T.S. Eliot’s   Little Gidding     “We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring    Will be to arrive where we started    And know the place for the first time.    Through the unknown, unremembered gate    When the last of earth left to discover    Is that which was the beginning;    At the source of the longest river    The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree    Not known, because not looked for    But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.”
       
     

 

An Excerpt from T.S. Eliot’s  Little Gidding

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. 
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning; 
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.”