Artist Statement:
I left for my mother’s second wedding with a suitcase, a camera, and the weight of unfinished conversations. It had been years since we’d spoken about the things that mattered, and this trip felt like a fragile chance at reconciliation. I took the long way home—alone—making stops not because I had to, but because something in me needed to pause, to look, to listen.
The photographs in Something Quiet in the Distance are not about landmarks or destinations. They’re about the quiet tension of in-between places: gas stations with burnt-out lights, junkyards swallowed by cornfields, small towns where time seems to have folded in on itself. I met a man who lived behind a gas station and hadn’t left in ten years. I stood alone in neighborhoods that looked like memory. I took portraits of strangers who reminded me, in ways I can’t explain, of people I once knew.
These images live somewhere between documentary and daydream, personal map and public echo. They trace a geography of emotional wayfinding—where the camera becomes a tool for reckoning, and the road itself starts to mirror the slow, uncertain act of returning.
Something Quiet in the Distance is about going back—not just to a place, but to the possibility of understanding, of being understood. It’s about the spaces we pass through on the way to healing, the detours that turn into destinations, and the quiet resilience of things left unsaid.
