i went back to the core this past summer--went back to black and white to re-learn shapes, textures, line, form--back to basics. it has been five years since i shot the world this way. and what came out of it wasn't what i intended.

a few months ago i walked into the Strand with one of my closest friends. the first book we set our eyes on and picked up was small and inconspicuous, with a crow flying out of an open window, but then she opened to a page that dug out our chests. we each walked out with a copy and read it together at lunch. "grief is the thing with feathers" it said.

i’ve drawn her unpicked, ribs splayed stretched like a xylophone with the dead birds playing tunes on her bones.

a month later my father pulled out some history and left it in the hallway. a lot of things came full circle then.

i've been playing a simple game that speaks volumes to me, and that i think very literally speaks to the layers of Recovery. it involves a silent, lonesome girl solving forgiveness while simultaneously coming face to face with the "bothersome crow people", that she, without giving away the ending, inevitably finds something familiar in.

and just a few days ago, in that bookstore again, a friend and i pulled a book off the shelf that not only involved a trip we just booked, but an army of those black birds.

i spent the summer blowing through rolls of film to remember what i've been taught--but what came out was really me remembering where i come from and where i've been. still another form of Grief / still another form of Healing.


and like the crows, i am fed.