When I threw her in there were berries on the bush
Water so low you could walk across.
I watched her sink with the summer sun.
We’re all going down.
This song, Fiske, is one that I recently wrote. Like any good folk song, it holds two meanings. On the one hand it is a classic murder ballad where a body is disposed of in a lake. On the other hand it is about an embodied connection to nature. I am both the person dumping the body and the body being left. The lake is complicit in the crime; it conceals and protects, mystifying senses of place and time.
I am interested in iconic images that defy definition. My pictures slip from mountains to breasts, from coming to going, from moon to hole. There is nothing stable about their references; they open and close in the blink of an eye. This reflects an ongoing investigation into things familiar and unfamiliar. My body, ordinarily a most familiar home, has become strange to me under the structure of chronic pain. These works address the kind of slow, strange change that you experience in a space long inhabited: be it a body or a well-known landscape.