Despite being exhausted from a weekend of staying up late and playing host, I couldn't resist processing the roll of film I had during my New York weekend.  I even printed some contact sheets, which I'll post in all their scratchy, contrasty glory.

One lesson learned: 200 speed film is such a hassle!  I bought a bunch of it thinking I wanted a little less grain, but it just needs too much light for my tastes.  On the next roll I'll go back to my trusty 400 and make more use of my new backdrop paper.

Anyhow, some images that caught my eye on the first glance:

Plans for a new photo project have given way to an abundance of introspection lately on art and self, and how the two intertwine.  The past two years represent an incubating period for my work, a time of smaller-scale projects to keep active as the next exciting idea worked its way to my doorstep.  While far from meaningless, these images still tend to portray scenes and subject matter I enjoyed photographing.  Here I emphasize the fact that the first few sessions or rolls preceded the complete formation of the idea.

Recently, a larger idea has preceded actual photographs and I've been preparing myself for a lengthier, heavier project.  As happy as I am for the breath of fresh air and the flood of new inspiration, this project means something far beyond rolls of film and aesthetic infatuations that got me thinking.

Stretching even farther, I would say I now want to create art with far more personal meaning, work that expresses fundamental aspects of self I've previously left unexplored.  Though I consider my series of nighttime industrial scenes as well as my reclamation images fairly well-developed projects, they act much like I do in everyday life: they make compelling insights, but don't necessarily bare the soul of the artist.

Artists play many roles, but most importantly they encourage the audience to consider a subject in a different light.  Visual art challenges our assumptions and preconceptions.  It questions common ideas and images.  But what happens when we bump up against subject matter that lies outside our comfort zone.  What if, in the process of discovering the images, we find we are less comfortable than we thought with the inherent publicness of art?

The images we create are intrinsically linked to our selves, a visual representation of our thought processes.  My feeling has always been that the best work is done just outside our comfort zones.  Just like you should always apply for a few jobs you're underqualified for, you should never be afraid to challenge yourself with a new project you're not quite sure how to manage.

I'm interested to know any current or historic examples of how introverted artists approach their work.  Is personal subject matter somewhat more abstract, just as we tend to speak more abstractly to suggest at -- but still skirt around -- an issue?  What about more thoughtful, but external, content, like lonely buildings or decaying industrial structures?  Or do many artists find it easier to express themselves directly through art?  It all stretches in front of me, to be discovered over the course of an exciting new project.  You can expect lots of writing and preliminary photos in months to come.

This weekend I light proofed the darkroom. And just how does one lightproof a room with lots of windows letting the light in? Well, I've discovered it's pretty easy when you're surrounded by clever people to give you ideas. Here's my process so far for setting up a DIY darkroom space.

I originally planned to put the darkroom in a spare basement closet, but quickly decided it would make more sense to use the bathroom instead. Why? It's bigger, has running water, and I don't need to run new wiring. However, the window (and the door with windows in it) in the bathroom presented a larger roadblock in terms of light proofing. Why the bathroom has a window and completely non-private door, or why a bathroom like this exists in the basement in the first place, is beside the point.

Since I still want to use the room as a spare bathroom, I chose to preserve it as is and save the light proofing for when I'm making prints. This is also one of the quickest and easiest solutions. I simply sewed together four layers of black felt and attached it with velcro around the door and window frames. I stitched in from the border a bit and left the edges loose to make it easier to smooth them against the woodwork.

After executing a very quick sewing job and sticking up some velcro strips, I put up my “darkroom curtains,” set an alarm for ten minutes, and turned out the light. After five minutes I started to make out tiny slivers of light at the top of the door and window, so I added more velcro and restarted the timer. A full ten minutes passed and, to my delight, I was still completely in the dark!

At this point I have to stop to point out the importance of spending adequate time in your darkroom before doing something rash like busting open a film canister. For a room to be safe for film, you must be unable to see ANYTHING after being in there for at least five minutes. I sat for ten just to be on the safe side. This is my cautionary word, though: just because a room looks dark for the first couple of minutes after switching off the light doesn't mean it won't fog your film. After five minutes, tiny bits of light and maybe even objects will start to appear magically before your eyes.

As you can see, the darkroom is also outfitted with a super snazzy DIY enlarger table and tray shelf. Before too long I'll paint or sand the top of the table and make a little skirt to go around the bottom. The rack can be tucked away in a closet or tub when not in use.

Overall, this project has been relatively inexpensive and easy. As a bonus, I've maintained functionality of my downstairs bathroom and the whole process is completely reversible when it comes time to move on to a new place. I like to be sensible: a person in their mid-20s might not be in the house she'll live in forever, and not every prospective home buyer will be excited by a darkroom in the basement (and no second bathroom).

The next hurdle, just discovered today: the only outlet in the room is controlled by the light switch. I think that's a funny joke for a darkroom space, don't you?

Yesterday morning I strolled to work at a relaxed pace, stopping regularly to take out the Focal Micro 110. Since the viewfinder's usefulness is debatable, I decided to try something new and take photos from hip and shin level. Digital makes me want to see the results of this experimentation tonight but alas, I'll need to wait until I finish the roll. What a great motivator!

By the way, I love that I can use my morning commute to take photos. I've made the bike ride in 7 minutes and can get there on the bus in 15, but opting for the 25-minute walk to work affords me so many more ( “orders of magnitude,” as my more mathematically inclined husband would say) opportunities to take in tiny moments, scenes, and often photos.

Looking back at the pictures I posted last Thursday, that's just what I'm doing: every time I snap a photo with the 110, I imagine I am bottling the moment and stashing it away in this plastic box.  Strange, I know, but this camera has a way of capturing my imagination.

Speaking of stolen moments, I had an interesting conversation with Baltimore fiber artist Melissa Webb yesterday while collecting material for a guest post on We Make It Art. She uses photography to document her work and commented, “I love the fact that you can say, 'this is what I want the world to see.'” However, she also pointed out that photos are but a “window in on a moment,” a moment the viewer has already missed.

So what am I doing here, archiving my footsteps through Baltimore? Am I weaving a commentary from dead rats and broken bottles, or just enamored with the bizarre order of the world?

Actually, in that way I think the 110 pictures are quite similar to the photos I took in my house this summer: documents charting my existence in a space (this time indoors), capturing moments as I wanted the world to see them, wandering occasionally into commentary.  The photo at right makes me think of the rat picture I posted last week, in a way.  Neither are visually "nice," but each place on display a moment in my life I wanted to "grab" and preserve.  As both these sets of photos develop, it'll be interesting to see how and if they connect.

How do you prefer to view/make images? What is their meaning/purpose for you?

I'm not sure about everyone else, but I feel like this has been a long week. How about something fun?

After reading an article about photographer Shawn Rocco's cell phone photography, I was inspired to break out my Focal Micro 110 for the first time in months. My recent relationship with the 110 – perhaps the first camera I owned – began when I found it at my parents' house last year with a partial roll of film left in it.

I put the Micro 110 away several months ago because I got a very disappointing roll back from the color lab. I know, I know. At some point, though, I decided the whole plastic camera thing just wasn't for me.

When I got that same roll out on Tuesday evening, I saw it with new eyes. Several shots had tons of potential, given a little post-processing. So I finished off the film cartridge that was in the camera, loaded another one, and studied my images to figure out what actually works with this device.

I can be a very meticulous photographer, and I love carefully composed photos. The Micro 110 throws this out the window. If I take too many careful shots on a roll, I am scolded with a batch of prints that don't exactly include what I photographed. An inaccurate viewfinder pushes me to spend a little less time framing the shot and a little more time thinking about the big picture, which I often miss when I've got a nice camera that can perform in any conditions.

What is my plastic camera not meant to do? Well, it's very hard to get good results with close subjects, distant subjects, oblique angles, depth of field, or low contrast. As I figure out what produces good shots – contrast, plenty of light, straightforward compositions, subjects not too far away but not less than four feet or so – I'm thinking about the time of day, quality of light, and subject. Sorting through my prints to decide on three to include in this post, I eliminated one of my favorites because it didn't mesh with the others well enough in terms of content and viewing angle.

A few years ago I didn't understand the value of the “toy camera” fad, but I'm looking forward to posting more from my 110 adventures as I rethink and evolve my process.

In college, studio space was always at a premium, and that's putting it lightly. The reality: one big room to work in, plus a smaller room for storage of paintings and chemicals, struggled to accommodate around 30 upper-level studio students as well as maybe 40+ intro to painting students (according to my somewhat conservative estimates). It was a mess. I feel like work consistently got damaged in the storage room because there wasn't enough space to store half of what needed to go in there, and space constraints pressured us to create paintings that were portable at every stage of the process.

As an upperclassman producing very large (i.e. taller than myself) paintings and spending up to 18 hours per week in that room, I felt some entitlement to my own space. Along with the one other woman making huge paintings at that time, I left my work out in a corner of the studio. This area grew to include with my palette, paints, and lots of sketches and notes tacked up to the wall. Months later we were admonished and forced to end our “homesteading” in the corners of the room because, hey, what would happen if everyone did that? What a buzzkill, what a serious drag on the creative process. The art building has been gutted and remodeled since I graduated, so I hope students are now given adequate space to work.

As I said on Monday, work space is crucial. So, now that I have a place to call my own, it's time to start homesteading again!

After making a handy drawing of the planned studio/work area, I calculated that I'll have 22 feet of hangable wall space. Plus, even though the house is only 14 feet wide, looking at the drawing I realize there is a lot of floor space to be had as well. I guess all the junk sort of covers it up at this point, but hey, it has a lot more potential than that little corner of the painting studio!

I got to thinking a lot about our house during my week away from home in a condo in Vermont. It felt wonderful to exist in a space populated only by the things we needed. My mind was clear, my ambitions strong, my optimism fully out of its shell.

Maybe I could attribute some of these feelings to spending every day skiing and enjoying fantastic scenery instead of showing up at the office. Who knows, but I came home with plans: hold on to your hats, folks, I'm cleaning out my basement.

Once I returned home I immediately realized why I haven't purged the whole house before: it's hard, it's intimidating, it's overwhelming. For someone with ADD like myself, it's impossible to know where to begin. Not to mention the basement is downright cold and dank this time of year. I voluntarily face these realities now not just because my parents will soon drop off a truckload of my childhood possessions, but also because there is another possibility in the works. There is a reward, a dedicated art space at the end of this tunnel.

Freed from the shackles of clutter, I can focus on populating my space with only the things I need. And at this point I've come to realize I do need a place to store, display, and create art. Everyone does. Imagine going to work in an office every day and not actually having your own desk. Or imagine your desk chock full of junk that's never going to help you get the job done. Our creative space is just as important to developing good work.

More on this to come as the project develops, but for now...before pictures, anyone?

On Thursday evening I'll get into my specific plans/wants for the space, so keep following along. If you have a basement, you can do this too! Already have a fabulous art space in your home? Please share!

Oh right, February is (eek!) a week and a half away.  I have a bad habit of making lots of short-term goals, then letting time sneak by unnoticed.  Let's see how the New Year's resolutions are shaping up.

1. Boost Words + Images interaction. I've been reading quite a bit about increasing commenting and traffic to a blog, and I'm happy to share some of the tips I've learned.  First and foremost, the key is to make relevant comments on other blogs within your niche.  Check.  Contributing to the blogging community is fun and rewarding.  After all, where else do you find such a gathering of folks sharing ideas about a topic?  The major effort I'm putting forth these days is more frequent updates: you may have noticed a regular full-sized update on Thursday evenings, too.  Even though I have a full-time job and plenty of other things to distract me, I know I need to put the time in to Words + Images to keep it alive and interesting.

2. Promote! Eh, I think my self-promotion needs to get a little more shameless.  I'm also on the lookout for appropriate guest posters and interviewees.

3. Get into some more galleries, grants, and contests. Uh-oh, no images on their way from the printer yet!  The lure of holding new prints in my hands will make sure this gets done, though...

4. Utilize and mobilize a Words + Images mailing list.  Hmmm.  I haven't done nearly enough thinking about this one, but there is now a sign-up page linked from the "about me" section of this site.
   

5. Get to know the Baltimore art scene. Meeting people is so intimidating for a recluse like me!

All in all, not a bad first month of the year.  How are you doing on your resolutions?  And, if you can, throw me some thoughts in the comments.  What are some strategies you use to get people exchanging ideas on your blog?  What are some great ways you've found to meet new people in your profession, and how does a timid person like me break the ice?  Do you send out email updates to keep folks in the loop?  Even better, for those of you who blog: what strategies do you use to maximize your time while providing consistent, quality content (I carry an idea notebook in my purse and make heavy use of Google Reader to glean ideas from favorite news sources)?

In the third week of the year, you can find me with my husband and in-laws enjoying prime skiing conditions in northern Vermont. When we arrived Saturday evening, one of the first things I did after unpacking the car was sit down on the couch and leaf through the Oaks 12 Journal. The journal, kept throughout the years by visitors to our condo, is a running narrative between 5-10 active journalers. Part of the magic of coming back to the same room every time is finding another year of writing from fellow residents.

Before anyone asks what this has to do with photography or fine art (it's a stretch but I'm on vacation, after all), for me it's all about the interplay of text and images. The topic has lingered on my mind lately because I made a New Year's resolution to send five photos to print from my latest work. I haven't done it yet, but I have populated my "idea notebook" with sketches for combining these very personal, domestic images with journaling.

Returning to the Vermont journal reminded me of the power of documenting personal histories in our own words. Every year I bring my camera and most photos just take themselves around here, but the way we weave a story into a place separates this experience from any other beautiful landscape. Here is where two tween girls who have never met in person, Gillian and Taylor, are making youthful memories and writing messages to each other in the journal. It's also where a grateful husband bonded with his wife and two little boys as she recovered from a battle with cancer. My husband spent childhood winters here and later proposed to me on the slope during New Year's fireworks.

So while I'll continue to take beautiful photos, the interwoven stories in the journal will create a richness of memory we could never achieve with pictures alone.

Today I participated in a press conference for the public launch of the Baker Artist Awards. Thanks to my copious blogging about the Baker Awards, the executive director of the Greater Baltimore Cultural Alliance invited me to say a few words on a live webcast. I had a great time despite going against my typically introverted character and putting a minor kink in the trainings I was doing for new VISTAs at the office.

Overall, I feel like I was given a great opportunity to be part of this process. Rather than writing about it at length, though, I will just make sure to post a link and a few more words when the recorded version of the press conference comes online.

In other news, I tried out a few new ideas over the weekend. I have often thought about but never tried to represent my exceedingly poor vision. Continuing with my current work, I took several images of the scene I see when I wake up in the morning.  Unfortunately, I don't think this one came out quite blurry enough...

[The upstairs railing, as seen through the bedroom door when I wake up in the morning.]

Combining my past work around lights at night with my current domesticity images, I finally got around to capturing an image that catches my eye every time I sit in our reading room at night. I may eventually go back and retake it from the couch with a longer zoom lens to represent my vantage point a little more authentically.

[Streetlight outside second floor window, looking into the back alley.]

As the initial momentum settles from my current work around home and the domestic, I have a little breathing room to flip through the pages of my journal and analyze the kernels of ideas written there. Now is a good time to take inventory and gather ideas on how I actually intended to present these images.

From the beginning, I wanted to make these pictures as much about words as pretty photos. So far, the following ideas look good to me:

• Combining journal writings with images in a diptych fashion, using high-quality scans of handwritten work.

• Somehow creating a zine to accompany the photos, an interesting revival of an art form from my teenage years. I am yet undecided whether this would be available as a take-home, by mail, or some other way, but the zine would follow viewers home and become part of their domestic landscape.

• Creating postcards from the images and asking people to mail them to me with on-topic musings. I'd like to see the postcards strung up or otherwise inviting interaction from readers/viewers. This is maybe the toughest idea to connect to the base “meaning” of the work.

Regardless of viewer interaction, these images demand a clean, simple, aesthetically pleasing presentation. Unlike any of my past work, I am celebrating (elevating?) the everyday, taking the small details and making them sacred. At face value a clean, traditional presentation implies images of a very photo-worthy subject.

How photo-worthy is my bedroom lamp? Dust clinging to the edge of an old box? Who would put these things in a gallery? At the root, I think this question connects back to the idea of incorporating journaling or postcard musings. What do these pictures show us? Do they reveal different meanings to different viewers based on context? Why are we looking at these images in the first place?

Ah, now that I'm asking these questions I feel like I'm back in art school again.

While I didn't enjoy taking a sick day on Friday, I had a several unexpected hours alone in the house under daytime lighting conditions. And though my entire body ached, I managed to take some very fast photographs.

Generally, I tend to be careful and calculated with my compositions. Straightforward images draw attention and thought to the subject matter and make for a more intellectual experience.

Lately, though, I've happily explored my boundaries in terms of speed and spontaneity. Whereas I have premeditated my domestic photos up to this point, during my time home sick I moved the camera quickly and took advantage of several different subjects as I meandered around the house.

These “faster” images also take longer to reveal themselves and sometimes leave some loose ends, like in this shadow photo:

Even more obvious subjects such as the sewing machine and window propped open could perhaps be interpreted differently by different people.

I feel like these images add a newer layer of depth to the work I've been doing. Continuing to break larger scenes down into small details, they may even provide a more “genuine” representation of my existence in my space. After all, I find small details clinging to my mind's eye, not the overwhelming generalities of an entire room. These two breeds of images will create a rich conversation hanging on a wall together – hopefully a not-so-distant next step in their lives.

Between tonight's and last week's posts I bought a new notebook. As often happens, a flurry of writing followed this acquisition. Since you asked, I succumbed to the Moleskine black, 3.5 x 5.5” cahier squared notebook. This was after I walked down St. Paul Street to discover the stationary store had closed, forcing me to trudge over to the Barnes & Noble for a greeting card but reassuring me that at least I wouldn't end up spending more money on notebooks.

At any rate, I have been using my new, purse-sized graph paper companion to keep notes about this blog and my recent photography. With this heightened awareness I was actually surprised by how often these images cross my mind on a normal day. When I write my fleeting ideas down, my next fleeting idea can build upon what I recorded in my notebook instead of starting from scratch again.

I have been able to gather a healthy number of preliminary thoughts from my journal around how my writing will interact with the photos when I show them. I have also given thought to my context as a woman recording and making sacred the everyday workings of the home. What does this mean? Am I necessarily communicating with other women, or just documenting my own unique experience in a domestic space?

Interestingly, I also dusted off three very different books I happen to have in my personal library. All of these books came to me by complete chance: caught my eye in the bookstore, turned up at the book wagon when I volunteered at the local arts festival back home, and snatched from my great-grandmother's house, respectively.

• What Our Mothers Didn't Tell Us (2000)
  

• The Feminine Mystique (1963)

• Womanhood and Marriage (1922)
  

In addition to my own photographing and writing and considering subtle implications (see below), I think I'll give these a read (or re-read). Who knows, maybe I'll get some ideas. Maybe I'll seek out some other books tangentially related to my images. Feel free to throw some books my way in the comments.

Every once in a while, I <3 Photograph shows me something that piques my interest.  The other day it brought to my attention the work of Erik Boker—specifically his "Product Dissections" series.  I found it interesting to compare his study of toothpastes to my own household photography.  While Boker has a lot to say about how we relate to the natural/unnatural as Consumer, I'm concerned in this case with his analysis of the "seemingly insignificant" objects we interact with on a daily basis. 

There aren't a whole lot of parallels between the work, but I find these toothpastes a little grotesque (perhaps a statement on our idea of "hygiene?") and wholly fascinating to look at. I think it was beneficial to my own process to look at his disconcerting critique of our everyday vs. my drive to capture and record household details as almost sacred.

Boker's stark, utilitarian images got me thinking about something else, too: can my images stand on their own?  How important is it that each and every photo be an excellent image when taken out of context? From the beginning, I have struggled with the fact that these images lack some of the boldness of my previous work. My nighttime photos, for example, caused me a lot of discomfort in their making. I was breathless with fear, trespassing alone at night and standing still for 30-second exposures. In every case I was experiencing fright or awe at crumbing shipyards, brightly lit industrial landscapes, skeletal fuel pumps from another decade.

My current work reminds me of the later images in my Reclamation series. At some point the photos calmed down and began quietly documenting the specifics of decay and abandonment: a weathered string of party lights, a faded plastic beach basket full of pine cones and dirt and old jump ropes. That careful documentation, the act of preserving and honoring a particular moment in time, is what I want to go for in this next body of images.

This time, though, I'm examining activity and life, light and color, a home inhabited. It still troubles me that there is no personal risk inherent in these photographs, but I think there is real opportunity there to create something very thoughtful that reads like a book: an exploration of the intersection between career, art work, household. Woman, wife, artist.

In the same breath this is home, simple and overlooked, as seen through the eye of a photographer and writer. We string together words and images constantly, even at home when it looks like we are simply collapsed on the couch after a long day. There is always something to say about the way the screen door frames the sycamore tree out front, the quality of light across the floorboards, the particular arrangement of a stack of library books on the table.

I love my house.  When I wake up in the morning or come home from work in the afternoon, I take note of the color palette, the furniture, the way the light shines through from one end to the other, and I give some thanks for this living space (and the wonderful husband and cat I share it with).

Recently I've been inspired to capture small details of my life in the physical world.  My success was limited at first, or so I thought. The images didn't seem to capture the essence of what I saw. They didn't “pop” for me. Looking at them objectively I appreciate these images in their own right, but I was disappointed when I first shot them:

As I left the scene behind and moved in closer to examine what was actually striking me, I came out with some far more satisfying images. Generally speaking, if I'm not happy with an image it means I wasn't close enough.

After moving in on my subjects, I took a few steps back again and came upon this nice little shot:

As much as I'm enjoying collecting these little snippets of domestic life, I'm coming up with some questions in my mind.  I'm afraid I should be doing more.  My goal has always been for my work to be contemplative and multi-faceted, something I could write multiple essays about if I was so inclined.  I know I have the intellect, so what am I waiting for?  It's been too long since I worked on a serious body of work.  Creating the handmade book to show my best Reclamation pieces was such a fulfilling experience.  The photos were fabulous and I was very pleased with the short creative non-fiction I included in the finished piece.  As I settle into a home that is once again inspiring, I feel very ready to get my head into a new (or renewed) project. 

Then again, maybe I should take my attraction to these images as a sign and give them a little more thought. I can see a very intimate collection of photos coming out of this, and I'd like to do a bit of writing to go with them.

We'll see where it goes in the coming weeks, especially as fall and winter begin to set in. I find the cold months to be my most prolific time in terms of writing and photography production, and I'm very excited to see where my inspiration will take me in this new home and new city.

If you'd like to follow along, I've started a new Flickr set, Domesticity, which I'll be populating with images as I get them.

Well, this week I actually did it.  I submitted pictures to every open JPG theme, even the weekly photo challenge.  This felt good.  A few people added my photos to their favorites and a couple more began watching me in their contacts.  Suddenly, I'm on a roll. 

Slightly less exciting was the fact that my main computer is broken, leaving me temporarily without most of my full-size versions of images.  This made for a big disappointment after I paid for entries to the annual Photographer's Forum spring contest only to find I lacked images with acceptable pixel dimensions.

All in all, though, it has been a good week.  The photo challenge was fun because it was a "camera toss" assignment, which I had toyed with before but never really gotten into.  I came out with many uninspiring images and a few good ones.  Some of the most fun for me were the ones showing my blurred arms reaching up to catch the camera, a happy accident I hoped was somewhat unique.  It wasn't.  There were so many outstretched arms I couldn't bear to enter mine, so I instead entered an abstract image.  I don't remember what it was originally, but I liked the simplicity and mystery of it: click here for the image (still working out some kinks with inserting images into entries, so I'd prefer to keep it to a minimum for now).

As busy as my life is right now, working out of two offices about a mile apart is a blessing. Rather than worry about parking (or lack thereof) or burning more precious fuel, I more often than not choose to travel that distance on foot. For 15-20 minutes, I am outdoors, measuring my footfalls on the sidewalk, removed from the stresses of my day. And my Focal Micro 110 is in my hand.

When I received my first set of prints, I was somewhat disappointed. 110 doesn't perform well in extreme light. My cheap plastic toy camera doesn't produce a clear image when photographing close up or a wide view of a scene. Really, the camera and the film require a delicate balance of light and distance from the subject. The viewfinder is inaccurate. Most of the pictures on the roll didn't come out how I had envisioned them.

Still, I've kept taking photos with the 110. After my initial disappointment over not having a whole roll of strikingly beautiful pictures, I've decided I should embrace this little silver and black piece of plastic. All silliness aside, I am developing a new eye and finding new pictures. It's no longer about meticulously engineering depth of field and precise compositions. It's about feel. It's about relinquishing some control to the camera and realizing that, plastic and all, it's going to have the final say.

(House hunting and wedding planning are beginning to take over my life for the months of March, April and May, but I'm still trying to keep adding images to Flickr. See a few of my 110 shots here.)

I have a tendency to buy quirky garments at thrift stores, only to re-donate them months later and purchase replacements which may or may not be consigned to the same fate. Last night as I was folding freshly washed t-shirts, I began thinking about the history of objects as they pass from one person to another.

A shirt is purchased at a trendy secondhand shop in Pennsylvania. Its novelty appeal for having a foreign-language slogan screen-printed on the front saves it from the purge when I move to Maryland, and it is packed away in a white trash bag labeled “summer clothes.” Later, I realize I have not worn it in months and place in the Free Box at work [http://www.greaterhomewood.org/, wishing it well in a new home.

I'm not sure if someone adopted it at work or if it was taken to the Goodwill when the Free Box got too full. I'm also not sure what path the shirt took to reach me at The Attic, where I purchased it for more than it was probably worth.

Years ago, I explored this idea with a camera. I had just visited a website which I cannot locate now, but was similar in spirit to Book Crossing. Disposable cameras were released into the wild and passed from person to person, with each taking one frame before sending the camera on its way. When a roll was finished, the camera would be mailed back to the artists, if they called themselves that, and the roll was posted on the website.

At age 17 I was even then a lover of words and images, so I began a similar project of my own. In a box tagged with return postage, I placed a disposable camera and a reporter's notebook with specific instructions: take a picture of something very important to you, record the frame number, and write a few words about what the photo was about and why you had chosen that subject for your single frame on this communal roll.

My plan was to present photos and stories together somehow, weaving together a collective tale of scenes, memories, snippets of life experiences. I was prepared to wait for up to 4 years -- I had learned to expect as much from the original website, which listed cameras as being in the wild for 2-4 years on average. My first person was chosen carefully: a coworker at the grocery store where I earned my gas money, one of the quintessential aging ladies behind the service desk, the glue that holds together the front end. I trusted her and knew her well enough to explain my project without awkwardness, but I knew the box would not cross my path before its due.

More than 6 years later, I still think of that box from time to time. Where is it? Did someone open the gift early, developing the pictures themselves in selfish curiosity? Is the box resting in a closet somewhere, the pictures screaming to escape the confines of their shell? Whose closet? Is it still in Pennsylvania? I don't remember the camera often, but when I do, these questions burn in my mind.

Perhaps I should try again, but what caused my experiment to fail the first time? Perhaps it would help to establish a home on the web for my traveling camera, allowing recipients to log its progress from place to place. Perhaps now that I know how to conduct myself like a professional artist and make a project look legitimate, people would feel more accountable when they received the camera.

Or maybe the project could take a different form. I could use it as a study of my workplace, or the seventh graders at the school where I work. People connected by an office, a school, a block, could spin a collaborative story, capture places that had impacted them in their neighborhood. 36 sets of hands could trigger the shutter, and the film would return to me wrapped in plastic and cardboard. Finally, and object that is able to recite its history, its path.

This could be the community project I've been itching to start. It wouldn't be too intensive, so I could start it before moving to Baltimore and before I truly feel I have the time to give to a major project. Over the next couple weeks I will roll this over in my mind a few times. Maybe the project that had me so fascinated hopeful as a 17-year-old kid will be dredged up and resuscitated after all.