One decade and 78 shows later, I continue to be interested in delving into the miracle of light being fixed on paper sensitized with iron or silver salts. At a time when digital photography is taking over the medium, I want to continue to preserve the craftsman like aspect of photography, the hands-on artistry of exposing a piece of silver nitrate film to light traveling through a piece of ground glass, and making a contact print in the sun. I want to recapture the sensuality of experience in the origins of photography.
There is a silent quality to my photographs; the images exist as stilled time. The photograph itself becomes a sort of momento mori. I emphasize the sculptural, fragile quality of the photograph by creating box-like frames with hand-blown glass and 19th century wallpaper or hand-made, marbleized paper on the back.
The quietude that people respond to in my pictures is, in part, because of the way the pictures are made: no flash; no harsh electric light; not even the sound of the shutter—just a lens cap removed, and then gently replaced. This encounter provides, for me, a metaphor for looking. My visual impairment allows me to provide a meditation upon the experiences of vision: visual loss is, after all, a visual experience.
I find now that I love speaking about my experience and sharing it with the public. I spoke on the BBC and “Fresh Air with Terri Gross” on National Public Radio about what it is like to create photographs without having my full eyesight. I’ve lectured at the International Center of Photography in New York, and at the Berkeley Art Museum. This is what I want to share: I’ve realized that it is not through my eyes, but through my mind, that I see things. Looking involves sound, sight, touch, and memory. What does it mean to see? What is it like to look, or to be looked at? These are questions I will continue to explore in my photographs and in my life.
