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Every summer my family made a cross-country car trip from wherever we lived back to my paternal grandparents' cabin. My grandfather built the cabin himself and named it Weta ("land between two waters" in Sioux) on a peninsula in Spirit Lake on the Iowa-Minnesota border. There is nothing quite like the silky water of a mid-western lake in the summer: the warm, mossy scented surface and the emerald cool, mysterious depths. We have stacks of old black and white photos showing my cousins and I in the water, each one of us in turn being floated by the safe and loving hands of mothers and aunts when we were babies and then, like time lapse, our bodies metamorphose from toddlers in inner tubes to ecstatic skinny kids diving under and then emerging again at the edge of adulthood. Looking back, it was a family baptism. This series is about that time, short as a dream, as impossible to hold as water.
studio galleries::spirit lake
"Art enables us to lose ourselves and find ourselves at the same time." —Thomas Merton