Image © 2008 Erik Boker.
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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.