4 Sides of The Table

In an empty room my mother died a beautiful death. I was there by the three windows that the sun was shining through. The presence of the light inside her bare room was memorable. It cast a reflection in the shape of the windows it had entered through, onto the opposite wall. The lack of her personal belongings combined with time passing slowly, as it did when she was dying created a deeper appreciation in me for natural light. We watched it shift across the wall, and a patch of it settled on her hands. My father was a scientist. When there was an eclipse, he would sit outside, as if time was suspended, watching the moon glow for hours. Afterwards, he would lay down and there was a rare aura of happiness around him. Though the measuring sticks that I photographed were not his, I could easily pretend that they were. Since I could no longer take pictures of my mother, I photographed her best friend. I felt I could convince myself she was my mother by photographing her in parts rather than her whole figure. These images are traces of time passed and evidence of what remains, even if only flour on the kitchen counter, dishes no longer in use or light flickering on a pane of glass.