“All things happen, happen to one, precisely now. Century follows century, and things happen only in the present. There are countless men in the air, on land and at sea, and all that really happens happens to me”.
-Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
Among my many irrational obsessions are deteriorating photos of strangers. I’ve spend more time than I care to admit riffling through drawers overflowing with the lost memories of others. As a child I combined images from the comfort of a closet. I pasted found objects into overstuffed books as a tangible record of things I’d seen; to make visual order out of a world I wanted, while providing a counterbalance to the familiar disorder of the world I knew.
Combining images has become a means of satisfying an evolved compulsion to arrange random events into a narrative; to bring past into present while exploring the possibility of an imagined world inside of one which formerly existed. I cling to a belief that, for better or worse, our small contributions collectively make big change. That we live forever through consequence of our actions, in the end leaving traces of ourselves along the way.