There was never much of a connection between my father and myself until he asked me for help after my mother died. He was lonely and suffering from depression, unable to keep his life in order. His hearing almost completely gone and dementia slowly stealing his identity, making him more and more isolated. We were both powerless to stop time but he was living with the knowledge that his life was coming to an end. I could only imagine how terrifying it most have been.
*What is it like to watch everything you know escape?
The last time I saw him was in the covid unit of the hospital. I was wrapped up tight in layers of protective gear. I used my gloved hand to hold his and told him that it was gonna be ok. There was nothing to worry about anymore. He was free. At that moment It felt like our roles had completely reversed. Him defenseless and me trying to figure out a way to ease his pain.
*Why did I think I could help him? Was it me I was trying to help?
A few days later, Saturday, March 28th, 2020, I got the daily call from the nurse. I knew he had died before I ever answered the phone and heard the words.
The Covid shutdown brought no goodbyes. No bedside passing. No mourning and no funeral. Just a death certificate and ashes. I don’t know what happened in his final hours. I was left with so many questions.
*How do you feel whole again in a world that is so good at breaking you down?
In the months that followed his death, with everything shutdown because of covid, I would spend hours rummaging through boxes of old photos and possessions. Slowly it felt like I was figuring out a little bit more of who he was, and possibly gaining some insight into who I am as well. His objects of identification, some known to me but many not, filling in blanks and providing me with a path to walk. This was how I began to reclaim what was removed.
I was interested in searching for something unseen, getting lost in a process and being swallowed up by the creation of meaning.
Turning a thought into a thing. Bringing the invisible to life. (Paul Auster, The Invention of Solitude)
I narrowed down a group of objects that held memories and meaning in order to use them as an anchor against the unknown. Assembling them into temporary sculptures by my window so that the light of the sun would blast through them, and over time I recorded what was transmitted.
*Assemble/reassemble, collect, archive, observe and search... Until it made some kind of sense.
Working with the past. Using time, light, chance and know how to try and find some kind of resolution. I needed something that didn’t operate in language or definition - an experience for my mind to wander in. The possibility of nothing and everything that could be a counterweight to the meaninglessness of life.
This video is one of the results, the final one for now. It consists of only Time and Light (T+L= ), and acts as a stand in for a life lived - one with all the details removed. It is born, it moves through time and then fades into nothingness. A process that will repeat until it is no longer possible to do so.