90 Years ago my great uncle picked up his 16mm movie camera and filmed a family gathering. For years I’m sure the projected figures recalled fond memories for the viewers. But now, with no information on who what why, they are just the play of light and shadow. No sound. No color. I only recognize my grandmother’s smile.

 

The film breaks the afternoon down into frames per second, and within each frame is a story, and within each story very carefully chosen words. Like zooming into a photograph until it breaks down into pixels: moments turn into flickers.

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Smile for the camera, smile at each other, hold a baby, hold hands - the intimacy catches my breath. This is where this work comes from: a deep intrigue for how we can connect across time and space. The way we can be so moved by an experience that isn’t ours. The way we can truly care for people we don’t know. Wings, flowers, grasses, roots become a physical overlay of how these connections could be revealed if only we could see all the layers of a moment at once. 

This work is not about a home movie - this happened and then that happened. It’s about a quiet burst - all of this happened.