In Death There Is Beauty
In the marshlands, death is commonplace. It arrives with a cold hand, draining the life out of the wild radish, the bulrush, and the meadow barley. All things must die, yet life thrives. And there is no mourning in the marshes.
This project examines the tenuous strands that bind us to life as seen through the natural drama played out in the California marshes. It is inspired by the sudden unexpected death of my mother at the age of 66. I had been living with her, taking care of her, while struggling with my desire to move across the country to begin a new life. All the while, deep down, I knew I could never leave her, until one day, she was gone. It was as if she had let me go. This realization held both intense sadness and profound beauty.
These photos offer a dream-state depiction of mortality and renewal: the passage from life to death to life again, and that in death, there can be beauty.
Fine art prints made from a subset of images in this gallery can be purchased in the print store.
It Comes in the Quiet
When gold fades to violet
And the day’s warmth fades,
Our breath slows
and our mind wanders,
Unaware of that which we fear.
As it stalks through the cattails
and darts through the reeds,
As it alights on the thistles
And crouches on the shore,
As it drifts with the tides
And waits for its time,
Slowly, slowly,
it comes
in the quiet of the night.
While we sleep it cloaks us in halcyon days.
While we sleep it whispers of licorice wands and snowball fights.
While we sleep it seeps into our lungs
And settles into our bones.
It blankets the land
with a sheet of quiet
patiently smothering
what we hold dear.
And then the shadows fade.
And then the dawn awakens.
And then the blackbird trills.
The reeds begin to rustle.
The pond’s surface stirs.
But the eyes no longer open
And the red-tailed hawk feeds
on what remains.
What lies beneath the surface? What hides behind the reeds and the bulrush? A blackbird perches on the tip of a cattail and warbles. What does it say? Is it calling its mate, or is it reciting the secrets of the universe? So much is unknown. We sit cross-legged with the wind upon our face and the smell of the earth in our lungs. We dig our fingers into the soil and feel grounded and alive. Yet are we, or it all an illusion? Our grip on this earth is so tenuous. We tread with our heavy boots while the seconds, minutes, and years tick away; the relentless march of time. Seasons come and go, yet this pond seems unchanged, year after year. Yet nothing is immutable. Sediment settles to the bottom, vegetable matter decays into microbes which in turn feed the surrounding soil. Water evaporates and is then replenished with seasonal rains. This pond remains — yet is never the same. Is that the secret? The secret behind the secret? We cling to what we know, to the steadfast and the stable. Yet nothing is. It is all known and unknown.
Fine art prints made from a subset of images in this gallery can be purchased in the print store.