89 Years

90 Years

91 Years

Years is a series with my grandmother Phyllis Skinner. I began the series on a whim in 2017 with the first interation being 89 Years. Now, each year I have with her from then on, I’m replicating the same photographs by memory. The photographs are taken on her birthday, February 20th. The series is captured on film.  I’ve assigned my grandmother a few projects of her own to be included in this series. Those being poetry, personal stories and knowledge the rest of my family may not know of.

I wrote a story about the entire experience here on Narrative



This is a photo series about a fictional relationship from the intimate perspective of a partner.


Oh Cyprus

You’re in safe hands.
The water will meet you again.

The city is a tramp which we may love.
Grasp the promise of the good life.
For our ever changing plans.
Chained by our ever changing spirit.
Traffic music.
It fills me up when nothing is expected.
The push.
The shock.
The handshake that will be changing your direction.
The mask.
Don’t wake me from pain.
Don’t chain me from the notion.
The day will come when I belong and I won’t be lost.
The sounds of someone to depart.
I wish the weeping could begin.
To get the pain started.
The sooner I can learn to cope.
Embracing these new found feelings.
No one is out to save you.
You have to catch upon yourself.
The falling into uncertainty.
The crumbling of the walls.
Nothing is in your way.
Your thoughts can expand.
Nothings in your way.
Travel into the unknown.
These new found feelings.
Oh Cyprus.
You’re in safe hands.
The water will meet you again.

Slowing seeping into the fray, I want to walk far away. The distance is close — I draw near. My mind elusive and acting cavalier. This disproportionate viewpoint of personal ideals. I’m not sure what thoughts are mine but I’m sure they’re not my own. Surely they aren’t my own. The glimpses of words that lie as imagination, I feel this premonition is a mask of certainty. The voice and mind that guides my life — perhaps a mirror of my better self. Denying my abilities and possible wellbeing, perhaps this is why I’m drowning. The rock that was hard is now soft as sand. Soaking me in uncertainty — again and again. Is there a difference in drowning or sinking? Is death a decision or an inevitable motion. Are these words my own? I hope not. I think.

There’s sadness in your eyes.
I now see what you chose to be.
Thoughts left unwritten.
Not waiting to be read.
Not left to be discovered.
Not there to be seen.
Nor felt.
Nor heard.
Nor helped.
Just discarded.
Like me.
Try to smile.
Explore the land.
This motion of life.
Never ceasing. 
Wipe your eyes.
Gaze on.
I thought.


Cocoon 0.5

I care not so much what I am to others as what I am to myself. I will be rich by myself, and not by borrowing.



bu·col·ic sight