This story has many parts. It is a years-long ongoing examination into the life of my father, Tom, and our relatives, amid the backdrop of rural West Virginia. My dad is a man of mystery, of laughing off questions, of walking out of rooms when he no longer wants to elaborate. So when he starts telling a story, I hold my breath and listen to every word. Stories of being raised on the same land he’s on now, of running away, of becoming a father when he was still a boy, of Vietnam. I listen to the stories of my mom and their technicolor whirlwind love story. She died many years ago, when she was the same age I am now, and none of us have been the same since. I listen to the spaces in between the words, the things that aren’t said - these horrors of a world gone mad. This is also an examination of grief and loss.

Then there’s this land, West-by-God-Virginia. This heritage of mine. Rural Appalachia - hillbillies, hollars, pokeweed, freedom, guns, 4-wheelers, meat and potatoes, clear-cut gender roles. But there’s also a heritage of community, loyalty, strength, grit, and the honor of coming from hard-working people.

Most of all this project is an ode to my dad, my family, the land that grew me and spit me out, and the desperate anticipated nostalgia for right now and how powerless we are to stop time, even just for a minute, while we hold our breath in anticipation of the things that are never said.

Archival Inkjet Prints