My Father’s Ashes
When my father died, his ashes were sent to me. I put the brown box on a shelf in our laundry room and forgot about it. When we moved, the brown box found its way to a closet in my basement. Then, through a series of events, the ashes ended up in my mother’s garage 30 years after my parents divorced.
I began My Father’s Ashes while photographing another series called Glove. After Glove was completed, I slowly began contemplating how to complete My Father’s Ashes. For a long time, I did nothing. In a holding pattern of not wanting to turn back but not wanting to move forward either. For much of my life, I had been connected to my father through the pain of hurtful experiences. My father’s ashes were a symbol of that pain. I wanted to move beyond it, but if our connection was not through pain, was there any connection at all?
Time was needed. There was a long period of inaction, necessary time in which the positive experiences of creating Glove became more a part of my psychological reality. The pain was slowly replaced connection, then admiration, appreciation, and love. It was time to let go of one relationship in order to fully grasp another.