Gratitude and Celebration

 Three generations. And a lot of matriarchs.

Three generations. And a lot of matriarchs.

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It's back to school time, and though my students are adults, I've been thinking a lot about how much we can all learn from my cousin's five year old sons. Though I don't see them as often as I'd like, I have always loved watching them play. The twins just started kindergarten.

I realized that one of the things I love see most is that they haven't learned that they "can't" do something, or can't do it in a certain way (kitchen knives and hot pans aside). They are discovering new things every day.

As we grow up, we learn we are better at some activities than others. We are encouraged down different paths. We begin to be assigned labels. We practice different skills.

Yes, some things come more naturally (I have never been able to understand car engines, no matter how hard my father tried), and we generally like doing things we excel at, but we also build the muscles we use. For me, those are often creative in nature. The way I see. How I solve problems. The tools I use to make images. And it isn't easy. I hear people talk about talent like it's something that just shows up, delivered by the proverbial stork. Or Santa Claus.

Like many people, I've had my share of ruts and setbacks. This happened recently (for two years) and I felt so frustrated and confused by this art of mine. I kept pulling out the camera because I knew I had to do it - I had to stay alert and I also needed to stay connected to the pathways through my brain and heart that seek out the beautiful and the curious. I knew I was making something, but I couldn't see where it was going.

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After conversations with friends, therapy sessions, a few bottles of wine, and travels from one coast to the other and back again, one day, sitting in an airport, all of the pieces came together. After two years, I finished the body of work within a few weeks. As my life came into alignment, so did my art. The day I put the final words to paper to describe this journey, I submitted the work for the first time. And now I sit in wonder that this creation is a finalist in Photolucida's Critical Mass. I received the email a few days ago and haven't been able to find words to adequately express my humble gratitude, my shocked amazement.

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One body of work is now complete and slowly making it's way out into the world. Another hangs from magnets in my office - resequenced daily. It is still growing. This weekend I began planning something new and I am excited to see yet another path for exploration. Another way of working with love, longing, connection, memory, home.

Today I write to remember this moment and to celebrate the triumph of continuing to create, whatever comes next. And I write to thank you for traveling through this journey with me.

Gratitude and Celebration

screen-shot-2015-09-13-at-7-28-24-pm.png
It's back to school time, and though my students are adults, I've been thinking a lot about how much we can all learn from my cousin's five year old sons. Though I don't see them as often as I'd like, I have always loved watching them play. The twins just started kindergarten.

I realized that one of the things I love see most is that they haven't learned that they "can't" do something, or can't do it in a certain way (kitchen knives and hot pans aside). They are discovering new things every day.

As we grow up, we learn we are better at some activities than others. We are encouraged down different paths. We begin to be assigned labels. We practice different skills.

Yes, some things come more naturally (I have never been able to understand car engines, no matter how hard my father tried), and we generally like doing things we excel at, but we also build the muscles we use. For me, those are often creative in nature. The way I see. How I solve problems. The tools I use to make images. And it isn't easy. I hear people talk about talent like it's something that just shows up, delivered by the proverbial stork. Or Santa Claus.

Like many people, I've had my share of ruts and setbacks. This happened recently (for two years) and I felt so frustrated and confused by this art of mine. I kept pulling out the camera because I knew I had to do it - I had to stay alert and I also needed to stay connected to the pathways through my brain and heart that seek out the beautiful and the curious. I knew I was making something, but I couldn't see where it was going.

After conversations with friends, therapy sessions, a few bottles of wine, and travels from one coast to the other and back again, one day, sitting in an airport, all of the pieces came together. After two years, I finished the body of work within a few weeks. As my life came into alignment, so did my art. The day I put the final words to paper to describe this journey, I submitted the work for the first time. And now I sit in wonder that this creation is a finalist in Photolucida's Critical Mass. I received the email a few days ago and haven't been able to find words to adequately express my humble gratitude, my shocked amazement.

One body of work is now complete and slowly making it's way out into the world. Another hangs from magnets in my office - resequenced daily. It is still growing. This weekend I began planning something new and I am excited to see yet another path for exploration. Another way of working with love, longing, connection, memory, home.

Today I write to remember this moment and to celebrate the triumph of continuing to create, whatever comes next. And I write to thank you for traveling through this journey with me.

…You can see the full body of work on my website, maricofayre.com

NEW WORK: Cartographers of Memory

I was raised on stories I didn’t believe, but wanted to. Fairy tales and family histories that changed with every retelling. Through empty roads and conversations around kitchen tables, I learned that every moment is both a discovery and a loss. The facts of our lives become history, until we have only pieces of memory woven into a personal mythology.

My grandmother, Tutu, had a stroke last February, at the age of 92. Four months later she told me that she could no longer laugh or cry, but that she still had a universe of thoughts inside her mind. For this woman of passion and chaos, a house was never enough space for all of her paper sculptures, her pianos and violins, her inventions and ideas. Now she sits in a chair in her daughter’s house, surrounded by beige walls, her mind filled with emotions and desires she struggles to express.

When I was a child her life existed for me as a series of unbelievable tales: training as a concert violinist in New York and drawing maps during WWII. Building a house in southern California out of barn doors and stained glass windows. Intentionally burning toast every morning. Befriending movie stars and opera singers and getting married four times to three husbands, but raising five daughters on her own.

At 30 I realized the stories were real. Without knowing it, I spent three years retracing many of my grandmother’s dreams – from New York City to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Adventure is her legacy.

These images, captured during my travels to San Miguel, are part family album, memoir, poem, and prayer. In the high desert, all of our masks and facades are scoured away in the wind and the dust, washed clean in the afternoon rain. The land here is made of light. It is sunbaked stone and agave plants and women emerging from their old lives like butterflies into the sharp sunlight.

This is a map of my search for my family’s history and my own home. The photographs show the expansion of a life, of becoming part of a world vaster and more fantastic than the books that fed my childhood dreams. But pause and reverse, see the images backwards, and they tell the story of a life that now turns inward, contained within four walls. And the universe of her mind. My world is now the one expanding, while Tutu’s becomes ever more still.

...You can see the full body of work on my website, maricofayre.com...

NEW WORK: Cartographers of Memory

CofM_025     CofM_026 I was raised on stories I didn’t believe, but wanted to. Fairy tales and family histories that changed with every retelling. Through empty roads and conversations around kitchen tables, I learned that every moment is both a discovery and a loss. The facts of our lives become history, until we have only pieces of memory woven into a personal mythology.

My grandmother, Tutu, had a stroke last February, at the age of 92. Four months later she told me that she could no longer laugh or cry, but that she still had a universe of thoughts inside her mind. For this woman of passion and chaos, a house was never enough space for all of her paper sculptures, her pianos and violins, her inventions and ideas. Now she sits in a chair in her daughter’s house, surrounded by beige walls, her mind filled with emotions and desires she struggles to express.

When I was a child her life existed for me as a series of unbelievable tales: training as a concert violinist in New York and drawing maps during WWII. Building a house in southern California out of barn doors and stained glass windows. Intentionally burning toast every morning. Befriending movie stars and opera singers and getting married four times to three husbands, but raising five daughters on her own.

At 30 I realized the stories were real. Without knowing it, I spent three years retracing many of my grandmother’s dreams – from New York City to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Adventure is her legacy.

These images, captured during my travels to San Miguel, are part family album, memoir, poem, and prayer. In the high desert, all of our masks and facades are scoured away in the wind and the dust, washed clean in the afternoon rain. The land here is made of light. It is sunbaked stone and agave plants and women emerging from their old lives like butterflies into the sharp sunlight.

This is a map of my search for my family’s history and my own home. The photographs show the expansion of a life, of becoming part of a world vaster and more fantastic than the books that fed my childhood dreams. But pause and reverse, see the images backwards, and they tell the story of a life that now turns inward, contained within four walls. And the universe of her mind. My world is now the one expanding, while Tutu’s becomes ever more still.

...You can see the full body of work on my website, maricofayre.com...

#MakeItHappen

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Today - write a book, start a band, start a company, rebuild a motorcycle, bake a cake, pack a suitcase and board a train. Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.

Love each other.

Love yourselves.

And celebrate!

#MakeItHappen

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Today - write a book, start a band, start a company, rebuild a motorcycle, bake a cake, pack a suitcase and board a train. Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.

Love each other.

Love yourselves.

And celebrate!

The Comfort of Uncertainty

locked_7192.jpg

Art and life are never static. Never the same from one moment to the next – this holds true for the way the window light illuminates my desk, the expression on a person’s face in an unguarded moment, and even the chaotic tangle of my curly hair. Much of my work is based on a desire to look behind the masks we create in order to show the world we are doing "just fine." I ask my subject to trust me enough to reveal a personal truth; to bring the best of themselves to the work in that moment.

Every image that is created is a new beginning – an object that didn’t previously exist. A record of an experience that is then shared with the world. A series of questions. I often create because the need is there, the energy is powerful - and can be dangerous if ignored for too long. Yet my work is completed by the viewer. The photograph continues to evolve and become something new for every person who interacts with it.

Jack Gilbert says, "...anything worth doing is worth doing badly." Creating anything with lasting meaning and impact requires risking the safety and comfort of knowing what will come next. My challenge is to continue picking up the camera, questioning everything I think I know, seeing the world again and again. And finally, allowing myself to be seen. Your challenge is to look.

"In the end it all comes down to this: you have a choice (or more accurately a rolling tangle of choices) between giving your work your best shot and risking that it will not make you happy, or not giving it your best shot -- and thereby guaranteeing that it will not make you happy. It becomes a choice between certainty and uncertainty. And curiously, uncertainty is the comforting choice." - Ted Orland and David Bayles, Art & Fear

The Comfort of Uncertainty

locked_7192.jpg

Art and life are never static. Never the same from one moment to the next – this holds true for the way the window light illuminates my desk, the expression on a person’s face in an unguarded moment, and even the chaotic tangle of my curly hair. Much of my work is based on a desire to look behind the masks we create in order to show the world we are doing "just fine." I ask my subject to trust me enough to reveal a personal truth; to bring the best of themselves to the work in that moment.

Every image that is created is a new beginning – an object that didn’t previously exist. A record of an experience that is then shared with the world. A series of questions. I often create because the need is there, the energy is powerful - and can be dangerous if ignored for too long. Yet my work is completed by the viewer. The photograph continues to evolve and become something new for every person who interacts with it.

Jack Gilbert says, "...anything worth doing is worth doing badly." Creating anything with lasting meaning and impact requires risking the safety and comfort of knowing what will come next. My challenge is to continue picking up the camera, questioning everything I think I know, seeing the world again and again. And finally, allowing myself to be seen. Your challenge is to look.

"In the end it all comes down to this: you have a choice (or more accurately a rolling tangle of choices) between giving your work your best shot and risking that it will not make you happy, or not giving it your best shot -- and thereby guaranteeing that it will not make you happy. It becomes a choice between certainty and uncertainty. And curiously, uncertainty is the comforting choice." - Ted Orland and David Bayles, Art & Fear

Finding Your Inner Story.

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This year is a time of personal expansion. I am saying "yes!" to new opportunities and collaborations, and I am so excited to share the journey with you! When the world feels like it is spinning too quickly, when the energy of New York builds higher and higher, when I feel like questioning every thing I make and what it all means, I return the deep places inside myself, so full of both darkness and light. Yoga and meditation prepare for insight, even revelation. Photography and writing give me the tools to record that process.

When Liza Keogh asked me to work with her to develop a retreat that incorporates all of these experiences, I felt like I won the lottery.

Retreats invite us to shed our daily habits and enter spaces that can feel very different from what we are used to experiencing on any given day. In this new space we are open to personal and professional change, enhanced creativity, awakened awareness, even deep transformation. The retreats Liza and I are developing encourage the integration of creative and mindful practices to uncover, discover and reveal your inner story, under the artful guidance of two long-time teachers.

Upcoming retreats include: Finding the Inner Story Photography, Yoga, and Meditation Retreat with Marico Fayre & Liza Keogh. August 7-10, 2014 in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico - and - October 17-19, 2014 at Nine Mountain Retreat Center in Plainfield, MA.

More information & additional retreats and workshops are coming soon!

Finding Your Inner Story.

img_7265.jpg

This year is a time of personal expansion. I am saying "yes!" to new opportunities and collaborations, and I am so excited to share the journey with you! When the world feels like it is spinning too quickly, when the energy of New York builds higher and higher, when I feel like questioning every thing I make and what it all means, I return the deep places inside myself, so full of both darkness and light. Yoga and meditation prepare for insight, even revelation. Photography and writing give me the tools to record that process.

When Liza Keogh asked me to work with her to develop a retreat that incorporates all of these experiences, I felt like I won the lottery.

Retreats invite us to shed our daily habits and enter spaces that can feel very different from what we are used to experiencing on any given day. In this new space we are open to personal and professional change, enhanced creativity, awakened awareness, even deep transformation. The retreats Liza and I are developing encourage the integration of creative and mindful practices to uncover, discover and reveal your inner story, under the artful guidance of two long-time teachers.

Upcoming retreats include: Finding the Inner Story Photography, Yoga, and Meditation Retreat with Marico Fayre & Liza Keogh. August 7-10, 2014 in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico - and - October 17-19, 2014 at Nine Mountain Retreat Center in Plainfield, MA.

More information & additional retreats and workshops are coming soon!

Dreaming a Year into Being

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I thought that I would sit down this week and write a recap of the last year - the changes and challenges and travels and projects. Life happened and now we are hours from a New Year. As I sit here, thinking of words, I realize that I feel overwhelmingly grateful and full. This year, for the first time in a long time, I know that I truly lived each day to the furthest reaches of possibility. I am fully myself, and continue to be - to just be - every new day. This year continued to show me the power of connection and community and the importance of personal strength. This year I have learned how to really belong to and in the world. And so, at the beginning of this New Year, I send these wishes to you, my community, and I hold these thoughts within myself as I cross another threshold.>

Be bold. Live fiercely and unapologetically. Build what inspires and sustains you. Be full and passionate and completely present. Dream without editing and create without fear.

I am so excited to see what we can do with each new day.

Dreaming a Year into Being

2013.jpg
I thought that I would sit down this week and write a recap of the last year - the changes and challenges and travels and projects. Life happened and now we are hours from a New Year. As I sit here, thinking of words, I realize that I feel overwhelmingly grateful and full. This year, for the first time in a long time, I know that I truly lived each day to the furthest reaches of possibility. I am fully myself, and continue to be - to just be - every new day. This year continued to show me the power of connection and community and the importance of personal strength. This year I have learned how to really belong to and in the world. And so, at the beginning of this New Year, I send these wishes to you, my community, and I hold these thoughts within myself as I cross another threshold.>

Be bold. Live fiercely and unapologetically. Build what inspires and sustains you. Be full and passionate and completely present. Dream without editing and create without fear.

I am so excited to see what we can do with each new day.

Speaking of Identity...

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After yesterday's post and a few recent conversations, I decided to elaborate further on this subject. I notice patterns. Serendipity? More than mere coincidence, though it is fair to note that once you begin looking for something, you find it everywhere. In letting go of one identity, or, perhaps, the need for a clearly defined and quantified self, I have found the conversation, the search for definition coming up in many conversation throughout the last year.

We all wear masks - the question is whether you will allow me to see behind yours. Or, more importantly, whether you know you wear one in the first place. I forgot, for awhile. For years it fit so tightly, so smoothly, that it became a mark of honor. Ingrained. I counted the mask as an accomplishment - look how quickly and quietly I can become...anyone. When I looked in the mirror I saw skin, but on camera the mask was inescapable. Staring back at myself, I knew all I had given up. All I had become. Through dedication and loyalty, hope and expectation. Through fear and love. Once I finally saw her, I was more terrified than any hero faced with the snake-crowned Medusa. I was already stone. It took 4000 miles, two months of sunlight, humor, patience, and whole lot of pop music to finally crack the marble mask.

The the question of identity - a quest for understanding and acceptance of ourselves at the best moments, and by society when we feel less sure and strong. We all take up armor and accessories. The clothing we wear to hide or reveal, the books we read, the hair, shoes, house, job, car (or conscious lack thereof), the food, even the company we keep. Is our very outlook an accessory? Do we feel what we think we should? If told we are happy, would we be convinced? When told we are depressed, we rarely argue.

I think there is a time in our lives - and it is different for everyone - when we have to become fearless. We are still afraid of things (I will scream and run away when I see a snake - every time), but we develop an internal knowing that looks back at us when we stand in front of the mirror, that counteracts the silent voices of doubt and insecurity. It says, “You’ve got this.” It says, “Be brave. Be bold.” It says, “You are worthy. You are loved.”

I fall a little in love with everyone I photograph because we share the act of seeing and being seen, revealing aspects of both artist and subject, and finally of the viewer.

Pause. Look. What do you see?

Speaking of Identity...

kat_oct13_8186.jpg

After yesterday's post and a few recent conversations, I decided to elaborate further on this subject. I notice patterns. Serendipity? More than mere coincidence, though it is fair to note that once you begin looking for something, you find it everywhere. In letting go of one identity, or, perhaps, the need for a clearly defined and quantified self, I have found the conversation, the search for definition coming up in many conversation throughout the last year.

We all wear masks - the question is whether you will allow me to see behind yours. Or, more importantly, whether you know you wear one in the first place. I forgot, for awhile. For years it fit so tightly, so smoothly, that it became a mark of honor. Ingrained. I counted the mask as an accomplishment - look how quickly and quietly I can become...anyone. When I looked in the mirror I saw skin, but on camera the mask was inescapable. Staring back at myself, I knew all I had given up. All I had become. Through dedication and loyalty, hope and expectation. Through fear and love. Once I finally saw her, I was more terrified than any hero faced with the snake-crowned Medusa. I was already stone. It took 4000 miles, two months of sunlight, humor, patience, and whole lot of pop music to finally crack the marble mask.

The the question of identity - a quest for understanding and acceptance of ourselves at the best moments, and by society when we feel less sure and strong. We all take up armor and accessories. The clothing we wear to hide or reveal, the books we read, the hair, shoes, house, job, car (or conscious lack thereof), the food, even the company we keep. Is our very outlook an accessory? Do we feel what we think we should? If told we are happy, would we be convinced? When told we are depressed, we rarely argue.

I think there is a time in our lives - and it is different for everyone - when we have to become fearless. We are still afraid of things (I will scream and run away when I see a snake - every time), but we develop an internal knowing that looks back at us when we stand in front of the mirror, that counteracts the silent voices of doubt and insecurity. It says, “You’ve got this.” It says, “Be brave. Be bold.” It says, “You are worthy. You are loved.”

I fall a little in love with everyone I photograph because we share the act of seeing and being seen, revealing aspects of both artist and subject, and finally of the viewer.

Pause. Look. What do you see?

Thoughts on Identity

fernando_aug13_4226.jpg

Walking down the streets on a coffee break, picking up lunch, running errands - I was constantly aware of the perceptions of others. Perhaps it was because I was always looking, watching, studying how people looked at one another, at themselves, how their features changed based on light, weather, the day of the week. In the beginning I always carried a camera. I stood out then, but not because I was hidden behind a lens. My identity, the face I showed the world, was all steel-toed boots, gender-bending suits, florescent feather boas. I hid by standing out - by becoming a character. And I sought to fit in through the same means. When you’re a weird kid, people rarely question what you are doing or why. (And you assume they wouldn’t understand, anyway.) It was a world of observation. Closed, except to the androgynous-neohippie-intellectual-artist-types. It was the summer before my first year in college.

Later I sought to blend in. I put on suits of a different kind, with heels and handbags, slowly expanding a wardrobe of prized Goodwill finds to include the fashionable and infinitely more corporate-America-appropriate Banana Republic sales racks. Ten years and three careers later, I gave away three dozen pairs of heels and traded boxes full of tailored slacks for skinny jeans and tank tops. I went back to digging through tables piled high with used clothes, delighting in “the find,” now measured in pesos rather than quarters.

With every transition I have discovered something of myself. Each time I put on a costume, became someone or something, I put together puzzle pieces of an identity. I like to think that I am now fluid. The heels of Manhattan give way to the sandals of San Miguel. No longer is it about appearance or the perception of others - it is the practicality of cobblestone streets, the joy of clothing I can dance in. And I am still never without a camera, whether film, phone, or digital. I still frame the world and through these images I have learned to see. This daily act of looking and recording, combined with years of costumes both on and off stage, continue to fuel my ongoing fascination with identity and the selves we show to the world. Each time someone steps in front of the lens, they are puzzles. I look to see how the pieces fit together.

Thoughts on Identity

fernando_aug13_4226.jpg

Walking down the streets on a coffee break, picking up lunch, running errands - I was constantly aware of the perceptions of others. Perhaps it was because I was always looking, watching, studying how people looked at one another, at themselves, how their features changed based on light, weather, the day of the week. In the beginning I always carried a camera. I stood out then, but not because I was hidden behind a lens. My identity, the face I showed the world, was all steel-toed boots, gender-bending suits, florescent feather boas. I hid by standing out - by becoming a character. And I sought to fit in through the same means. When you’re a weird kid, people rarely question what you are doing or why. (And you assume they wouldn’t understand, anyway.) It was a world of observation. Closed, except to the androgynous-neohippie-intellectual-artist-types. It was the summer before my first year in college.

Later I sought to blend in. I put on suits of a different kind, with heels and handbags, slowly expanding a wardrobe of prized Goodwill finds to include the fashionable and infinitely more corporate-America-appropriate Banana Republic sales racks. Ten years and three careers later, I gave away three dozen pairs of heels and traded boxes full of tailored slacks for skinny jeans and tank tops. I went back to digging through tables piled high with used clothes, delighting in “the find,” now measured in pesos rather than quarters.

With every transition I have discovered something of myself. Each time I put on a costume, became someone or something, I put together puzzle pieces of an identity. I like to think that I am now fluid. The heels of Manhattan give way to the sandals of San Miguel. No longer is it about appearance or the perception of others - it is the practicality of cobblestone streets, the joy of clothing I can dance in. And I am still never without a camera, whether film, phone, or digital. I still frame the world and through these images I have learned to see. This daily act of looking and recording, combined with years of costumes both on and off stage, continue to fuel my ongoing fascination with identity and the selves we show to the world. Each time someone steps in front of the lens, they are puzzles. I look to see how the pieces fit together.

In Gratitude

framed_charlie_1231.jpg

On this day, two years ago, my life changed. It has continued to change many times since, in big ways and small, but that was one beginning. Every day I am grateful for the life I am building - the surprises, the challenges, the community, the adventures. Through laughter, so much laughter, and through tears. With plenty of dancing, some long nights, rooftop meals, and many incredible friends to support me along the way.

Each day I create this life in gratitude and awe, and each day I look for what more I can do - how I can be more open, giving, joyful, compassionate, present, and brave. Though the days and the locations shift and flow, there are a few core elements that I know establish the foundation for everything else that follows: connection, inspiration, curiosity, and the need to do something in the world that matters.

I am never on this journey alone. I thank you. All of you. You inspire and encourage me every day to live fearlessly, to work harder, to continue becoming.

Between now and the end of the year, I would like to share some of the incredible collaborations and adventures that made up 2013. So, in case you haven't yet met, this is Charlie. Last summer, we had the fantastic experience of shooting a series for [FRAMED] with Brooke Shaden.

In Gratitude

framed_charlie_1231.jpg

On this day, two years ago, my life changed. It has continued to change many times since, in big ways and small, but that was one beginning. Every day I am grateful for the life I am building - the surprises, the challenges, the community, the adventures. Through laughter, so much laughter, and through tears. With plenty of dancing, some long nights, rooftop meals, and many incredible friends to support me along the way.

Each day I create this life in gratitude and awe, and each day I look for what more I can do - how I can be more open, giving, joyful, compassionate, present, and brave. Though the days and the locations shift and flow, there are a few core elements that I know establish the foundation for everything else that follows: connection, inspiration, curiosity, and the need to do something in the world that matters.

I am never on this journey alone. I thank you. All of you. You inspire and encourage me every day to live fearlessly, to work harder, to continue becoming.

Between now and the end of the year, I would like to share some of the incredible collaborations and adventures that made up 2013. So, in case you haven't yet met, this is Charlie. Last summer, we had the fantastic experience of shooting a series for [FRAMED] with Brooke Shaden.

At Home in Motion

clouds_2077.jpg

they can call me crazy if i fail all the chance that i need is one-in-a-million and they can call me brilliant if i succeed gravity is nothing to me, moving at the speed of sound i'm just going to get my feet wet until i drown - from "Swan Song" by Ani Difranco

In familiarity there is inspiration, and also the potential for stagnation. I left home at 18 (and again at 29) to seek new types of creative expression and to find out how much bigger the world could be. Now I return to my roots for respite and the freedom that comes from working with a place and a subject that I feel in my core. Creating in Oregon is intuitive and natural. I know the light. I have traversed the landscape from stark beaches to mountain overlooks. Discovering new places to photograph feels like coming home again and again.

For years I created work about searching - for belonging, for home, for purpose. I wanted an escape and I found it in photography. My endless quest found resolution not by finding the answer but by redefining the meaning of home - instead of a physical location it became a feeling, a sense of internal peace and belonging. I think I fully realized the importance of this redefinition when I stopped dreaming about losing things.

Now the importance of place allows me to tell stories, share my world, and remember that I never travel so far that I cannot go back to the beginning.

At Home in Motion

clouds_2077.jpg

they can call me crazy if i failall the chance that i need is one-in-a-million and they can call me brilliant if i succeed gravity is nothing to me, moving at the speed of sound i'm just going to get my feet wet until i drown - from "Swan Song" by Ani Difranco

In familiarity there is inspiration, and also the potential for stagnation. I left home at 18 (and again at 29) to seek new types of creative expression and to find out how much bigger the world could be. Now I return to my roots for respite and the freedom that comes from working with a place and a subject that I feel in my core. Creating in Oregon is intuitive and natural. I know the light. I have traversed the landscape from stark beaches to mountain overlooks. Discovering new places to photograph feels like coming home again and again.

For years I created work about searching - for belonging, for home, for purpose. I wanted an escape and I found it in photography. My endless quest found resolution not by finding the answer but by redefining the meaning of home - instead of a physical location it became a feeling, a sense of internal peace and belonging. I think I fully realized the importance of this redefinition when I stopped dreaming about losing things.

Now the importance of place allows me to tell stories, share my world, and remember that I never travel so far that I cannot go back to the beginning.