My work began as a personal narrative about mourning the loss of my dad while he was still alive and progressed into an exploration of grief, memory, and time. 

It all started with a piece of carpet. Burnt into the green pile were traces of hot cigarette ash that fell to the ground as my dad fell asleep after long days working in the factory. In 2021, I found the discarded remnant rolled up in his garage. I don’t know why the only portion of the carpet my parents saved from their bedroom was the most damaged piece, but I believe I was meant to find it. 

Since then, my work has morphed into a conversation. Sometimes one-sided as Dad’s illness progressed and the ability to articulate his thoughts became more and more difficult. It is a reconciliation between father and daughter and a rewriting of history through documentary photography. In this work, I attempt to be as truthful as possible, knowing my truth will be as subjective as a photograph. I constantly play jump rope with the ideas of authority and exploitation because this is my story, but I also know there are things he would not want to be shown in a public setting.

Alcohol and cigarettes were my dad’s mechanisms for passing the time. The byproducts of these addictions are now an integral part of my practice—each 24 oz. Black Cherry White Claw can was collected, transported, washed, dried, taped, and painted. The multiple Marlboro Special Select cigarette boxes he discarded daily were meticulously disassembled into their assorted materials to be transformed into sculptures. By spending time with these materials, I can spend time with him, even if he is not around. 

Loss is universal, and grief is inevitable. No matter how prepared you think you are, there will never be enough time.