In the spring of 2020, one of the more constructive of the various insane things I did was pull out a decade-plus of my artwork to take high-resolution documentation photographs and finally get my archive in order. Much of my work involves chance outcomes, and because my ability to see what is interesting changes as time passes I keep everything. This means I currently have a few thousand pieces of photo paper from near-trash test prints to complete pieces measuring  6 x10 feet (approx. 2 x 3m), each given an inventory number, wrapped and stored carefully to protect it from light, dust and moisture. 

Seeing so many of them in such a short period of time, I was struck by certain small wondrous moments, maybe the size of a hand or an outstretched arm, which get overlooked when the work is viewed on a screen. So for the past few years, before returning these delicate works to the safety of their little crypts, I took zoomed-in photographs of particularly interesting areas. This book presents a small selection of those details. 

The pieces detailed in this book, made between 2009 and 2023, fall into three categories. Drippy ones are made by exposing pieces of color photo paper to a fully lit room and processing them with darkroom chemicals. Ones with geometric lines are photograms, made by placing an object on photo paper, exposing it to a controlled amount of opposite-color light, then processing the paper in a machine that chemically activates it for precise amounts of time at exact temperatures. The third and smallest category is a hybrid of the first two but also includes imagery from enlarged negatives.

To give a sense of the works as specific physical objects, on some pages in this book the surface of the photo paper is visible in the glare from the studio lights. On other pages you might see magnets holding up the work on the studio wall. These works aren’t meant to look like pictures of anything. Obviously some of them look like paint, but in this process, their shapes and colors are the outcome of time, temperature, and/or chance combinations of liquid chemicals. The process doesn’t allow for editing, like a painting or an essay, but rather is like a performance that happens in a specific moment in time. If I don’t like the result, I (have to) make another one. 

These works are the outcome of me asking questions about life and the world using the discipline of photography as a model. Here, I am thinking of photography as a system of technology and cultural norms, what makes a “valuable” subject, how that subject should look, and how it should be displayed or shared. The artworks are the results of testing that system from within itself using its own logic and components, i.e., only using products from the photo supply store. (I imagine turning over path stones on a philosophical quest fueled by wonder and frustration, leaving piles of colorful paper in my wake.) This is a discipline I learned and internalized, and I have spent most of my adult years testing its assumptions to shake out what is useful and what is a hindrance on the infinite road to a liberated mind and the appreciation of being alive.

---April 2024, Brooklyn, New York