She told me, that is to say, my mother, the mistress of the very tall tale, told me, that before she met my father she fell in love with a very rich Jewish man whose aged mother strongly disapproved of her, a gentile – so much so that she would disinherit him if they married. So they decided to wait until after his mother had died. My mother though, tired of waiting, and left him.
I didn’t believe it.
When my grandmother died an album was found, and therein a photograph of my mother and not-my-father in evening dress gazing into each other’s eyes – what the camera saw, and the starting point of this body of work.
The images are translations of my family albums, physical photograms made in wax of people in absence, preserved, contextless. Without detail, they show the bare bones of memories, framed in found frames which bring with them their own history and lost memories. Empty frames abound, signifiers of lost memories, while loose images are on their way to being lost.