During the summer of COVID-19, I took refuge in gardens near my parents' house, witnessing the full cycle—from the first spears of growth until their inevitable demise. Is there a way to preserve beauty beyond its time? I took photos of what I saw there, trying to capture the essence of place, and myself in it.
Entranced by the vibrancy of the summer season, I turned to the anthotype photographic process. Using the flower’s pigment to make light-sensitive emulsions, my garden photographs were impressed upon the botanical distillations by the sun’s rays. I admired the flowers, but in the end, I used them to create, to make something more lasting than a bloom. The process became an obsession, an act of collection and preservation before the season's end. The results are like fossils, or jars of preserves, emphasizing the photograph’s inherent stillness and marked "death" of the subject.
This summer in gardens initially provided a counterbalance to personal and greater uncertainties, and became an exercise in acceptance, of petals falling to the ground.