8 June, 7:37 p.m., (tree swallow)

29 March, 6:54-7:07 p.m.

13 January, 5:53 a.m.

8 March, 6:22-6:28 p.m.

10 January, 5:09 p.m.

3 March, 6:04-6:05 p.m.

7 April, 8:03-8:04 p.m.

15 April 5:39 a.m.

13 April 5:39 a.m.

28 April, 8:07 p.m.

24 April, 8:07 p.m.

5 August, 8:37 p.m.

27 June, 8:57 p.m.

2 July, 9:08 p.m.

4 May, 5:24 a.m.

10 May, 5:29 a.m.

19 June 4:48 a.m.

17 June, 9:11 p.m.

5 June, 8:41 p.m.

12 June, 8:57-8:58 p.m.

23 June, 7:44 p.m.

8 July, 8:39 p.m.

29 August, 8:15-8:27 p.m.

16 July, 9:07 p.m.

25 July, 5:36 a.m.

25 August 8:03-8:04 p.m.

15 September, 7:24 p.m.

12 October, 6:38 a.m.

26 October, 6:49-6:50 a.m.

6 November, 6:06 a.m.

31 December, 6:05 a.m.

16 October, 5:56-6:00 a.m.

4 November, 6:37-6:39 a.m.

4 November, 6:48-6:49 a.m.

1 December, 8:13 a.m.

Tending a Wounded Field is a novel history of light and air in the field outside the house where I live. The field, called K’tsi Mskodak in Abenaki, is in southeastern Vermont. It held a grove of red pines before settlers felled them to be used as ship masts. This work has taken on a memorial-like relation to the felled trees. I feel the absence of the trees though I have never seen them.

This work consists of photographs made in the field. Color-field images are interspersed with images of the field itself and spaces adjacent to it. The color-fields index the passing of time. I make them in dim light before dawn and dusk; I arrange a clear glass object against white paper facing the horizon where the sun will rise or had set. In dim light the white paper reflects the sky; the colors come solely from ambient light. I aim to see how many differences, no matter how subtle, can be drawn strictly by daily changes of atmosphere.

Making this work has been a meditation on impermanence: how impermanence is deeply felt when a consistent object disappears, changes, or comes to signify an absence. These images speak to impermanence in terms of both loss and continual becoming. This is an expression of reverence toward how time moves us even as we stand still.


May 2023 – ongoing