Dusty roads going on in every direction ... the sounds of wagon wheels and horses hooves ... quietude... community ... a shared way of life and understanding ... this is daily life in Davies County, Indiana, and Lancaster, Pa.

My son was a die-hard reggae fanatic ... turned Rasta at the age of 14. As a doting mom, and respecting his path, I began to take him to Jamaica several times a year. What I didn’t expect was that many years later, after a healthcare issue, I would go back with a point-and-shoot camera and find myself discovering photography.

I hired a driver, grabbed the camera, stopped the car and found myself in people’s yards, talking to strangers down in the river washing clothes, people becoming new friends everywhere. My soul was literally on fire…

my expectation was to go to jamaica and find some healing , my smile… but i what i found was the birthplace of my visual literacy and love of photography .. all i wanted to do was grab a map and go get lost in various directions.. to get out of the car and walk.. talk to people. creating a ton of memories , and connections

for a time after this first solo trip i thought had to go back there to do photography..i thought it was dependent on this place so i went again and again many times a year for years… it is were my visual literacy grew … it is the birthplace of my connection and love of photography..

i will forever be grateful and indebted to jamaica for giving me one of my greatest loves.

it is from this very first trip alone that two images were selected for exhibition, long before i’d even consider myself a photographer. it was an honor then and every time after…

a routine mammo followed by the unexpected diagnosis of breast cancer.... my head was swirling. .. i couldn’t imagine what might be my life in the coming year or more..... the first words.. chemotherapy turned my insides out.... loss of hair.. the world would know.. i would be exposed... to them.. to myself.. to my inner world of terror.... as i grappled with a long period of time in treatment. surgery... radiation... i peeled the layers back inside myself.. and found the most important gem.. myself.. true identity. truly exposed.... it was then i turned the camera on myself..

How do we reckon with ourselves?
Really hear ourselves think if we are in constant motion?

What I have come to realize is that the closest I have ever been with myself is when I have been forced to remain quiet, intermittently isolated and alone.

Most of those moments are wonderful, even peaceful and yet sometimes they can be deeply uncomfortable. One can often feel some pangs of loneliness, the itching to pierce the quietness just by being with someone else.

Loneliness is not always a negative word. For a person that is as much an extrovert as an introvert, I struggle to find that delicate balance of time with others and at times by myself. It has been a learning curve because l love interaction, conversation, closeness but I cherish my time alone and I’ve learned that you can still have all that fullness when you remain quiet with yourself.

In a world of continual distractions, background noise, and clutter, I am seeking to find some distillation and quiet in my work. People are often overly scheduled, on the move, their heads in their laptops and mobile devices, onto the next moment, while missing the current one. Many do not see or hear what is right in front of them, where people have forgotten to observe, to take notice, to stop, to breathe, to just be still.

The images submitted are just about that, stillness, when time is suspended.

doors , shutters, curtains……from some of the older homes that still survive on Saint Lucia, West Indies. These are the jewels , and gems, the portals to a culture , home ,family, and generational history

It began one Sunday ... getting there after the morning sun, before the church bells rang ... meandering the streets and watching people scurry along the sidewalks to church in their finest ... or just talking in the street, huddled in shared laughter and gossip ... familiar people, hugs, camaraderie ... children at their feet or nearby running in circles ... girls wanting to look like their moms holding purses and wearing hats, just as delicious in their Sunday best.

I found myself researching many of the small churches in the area, becoming a regular at some (I even got my own sign for my car so I could double-park if I wanted). I have begun to document the churches, but my focus is always the people ... community ... always community .

Sometimes I go into a service, sit for awhile ... kind of interesting as a born Jew ... I love the music ... the hands swaying. I love the sense of community inside ... and I love being in the streets before and after the service. Hugs and kisses all around ... belonging.

This will always call me.

Dusty roads going on in every direction ... the sounds of wagon wheels and horses hooves ... quietude... community ... a shared way of life and understanding ... this is daily life in Davies County, Indiana, and Lancaster, Pa.

It is overwhelming to see what a fire can do.

Since 2017 I have been coming to California after the fires, and walking amongst the remains and taking images. I feel how deeply painful it is to lose a home. But it is the belonging of memories and things that are irreplaceable that are so moving. One can rebuild, but you cannot recover. Treasures of history from a lifetime, remains of just a standing hearth, pictures on a wall, a found mug or items on the ground charred. It literally takes my breath away as I stare in disbelief what mother nature can do.

I remember the first fires and the phone call at 3 am with my son. I actually hung up on my son for not realizing the time difference, only to have him call again and again and say he is evacuating. I remember sitting on my porch for two weeks listening to the radio and awaiting texts. I even went out in the middle of the night for a banana and cigarettes. And I don't smoke, but sat here in my home chain smoking in fear.

That year and all the ones that followed, I always found myself there within 2 weeks after each fire. Friends of my son losing homes, being evacuated, but coming back to the land. Here in New York, the Northeast may get a few storms but nothing the likes of this, and not repetitively. I wanted to bear witness and began documenting behind the lines. Driving up and down dirt roads I captured images where one of my son’s friend lost his home and his entire 80 acres of land. Devastation I had never seen before and so up close and personal.

These images leave you heavy in a swirl of devastating emotions just like being engulfed with the fire all over again. But there is beauty and in the end there is also recovery. A flower in the midst of charred ground, the green grasses and flowering trees emerging within devastation. I have much to photograph, but it is with love and huge respect for all those that battle this again and again and all those that work tirelessly to save lives and property. I am humbled and yet honored to come back to this place, so it is not forgotten just because the fire is out.

When I die give what’s left of me away
to children and old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
cry for your brother walking the street beside you.
And when you need me, put your arms around anyone
and give them what you need to give to me.

I want to leave you something,
something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I’ve known or loved,
and if you cannot give me away,
at least let me live on in your eyes and not your mind.

You can love me most
by letting hands touch hands,
by letting bodies touch bodies,
and by letting go of children that need to be free.
Love doesn’t die, people do.
So, when all that’s left of me is love, give me away.

- Epitaph by Merrit Malloy

My venture and love of Maine began as a young 4th grader when my parents wanted to get rid me for the summer because my older brothers were already gone to camp in Maine…and they wanted a free from kids house… so there i went..….. except i landed there and was deeply homesick and cried to come home… but No way.. i was to stay for two months… learn to suck it up and get with the program…

so i literallty went step by step to get through the days until the distilled moments became like a different rhythm.. one that i didn’t know would grow on me..

walk down a trail to your bunk… trying not to trip on all the roots in the ground.. it became a fun game… the smell of morning dew.. the light lowering at nite on a lake,and once in awhile a dusk skinny dip… lightning bugs shimmering all around.... the walks down long winding roads just to get to a candy store with your bunk, where youd buy those small wax bottles with colored sweet juice… ….. small seemingly non- moments became some of the best memories of a life time

years later i ventured to Maine regularly, having a sister- in law that lives there…and two newly found friends ( now 22 years later) who live in different areas of the state.. and a brother who has a home on an island..

Maine= Summer= Decompress to a slow movement.. tick tok .... things in slow motion…... whether taking a drive and getting lost …the biggest decision is go left or right.. lobster rolls or steamers… high or low tide…country drives. the one and only town store… all the houses with laundry flying in the wind.. beaten down barns and lots of buoys and fisherman, …wild flower fields. flea markets, picking rocks, dives in a pond… whoopie pies.. how many i can eat in one visit and how many i can carry home…cemetaries.. collecting berries and making jam……hunt for a moose…. the old salty dogs i’d chase for a portrait and conversation,.. the search and count of trailers,. the small insignificant but most delicious moments.. signage everywhere... .. boats afloat on grass sitting on cement….. sitting somewhere in quietude with a book.. or just staring into beautiful open space.

maine is one of those places that is beautiful from the outside, but has a tempo and a tune all of its own.. and if you dont get it at first, just wait a minute and you will in time… live for the seconds. …the unexpected .. barns filled with vintage books, so much discovery.. and mostly about yourself because you can actually hear your heart beat and thoughts.. now this is coming from a new yorker.. two worlds apart yet so different and so complimentary.

there i am. there i was. it just is.. you just are.. be….. you go by the seat of your pants..revel in the moments.. some days are just …..ok here is morning.. here is nite.. yep found some wild mushrooms on the side of the road. oops i left my glasses on the hood of the car and i just ran over them… yep legion halls announcing a bean dinner and bingo… yep .. get your tarp or taaaarp.. let’s get in the caaar ., which way… this way… —those accents are so damn endearing..

maine is. there you are. there you go.. there we were…yep that’s maine..

When my son moved to california in 2010 he said he would be home in a few years. One year bled into the next and i found myself going there every few months and extending my stay each time.

The camera, my creative limb that connects me to the world was my vice for learning a new region, and place that felt vastly different than my own in New York.

People are more outdoors, the climate is milder for much of the year. In close proximities , there are mountains , ocean , vineyards, farm land, and lots of vintage structures, so much for the eye to capture , never mind the people who seemed to live with a different kind of carefree zest for day to day life.

over thirteen years i used photography, as a magnifier to bring myself in closer to everything i was being exposed to and experiencing. Anyone knows the United State , knows that the east and west coast have a very different feel.

Over time i created a relationship with the region , driving, getting lost and stopping at will to get closer to the communities and land

Alot of these images tend to make the viewer want to move in and look closer, just as i did as an outsider, to create their own version of what they see. Part of getting closer to these images is also due to the fact that most of the images of people are obscured or hidden, and some of the objects you have to look at again, also creating your own story for what you are seeing, much like one does when reading a novel. We each have our own versions, mental imagery and understanding and that can be each others may vary.

Either way when viewing something there is the perspective of the one right there on site, taking images that speak to their own soul , of what moves them, finding a voice to what they see.,and that voice or experience of another that may be very different than that of the viewer. We all have to explore and find our own relationship to what we see and experience.

As we age, and become adults ourselves, we take a much keener notice of the generations ahead of us, seeing somehow ourselves in the future. How long will we live? What frailties we may have? Will we be mobile until the end? Bedridden? Use a walker or pushed in a wheelchair? Some will think, Will I be alone? Will my children or family help? Can i afford a caretaker? These are all serious and humbling questions we think and ponder about for ourselves, and yet at the same time dealing in the present with our own parents and loved ones.

It is this awareness that has made me oversensitive to those aging and in need. I almost can feel what they must feel, how others see them. They look at those younger, remembering their own youth, viability and yet now are so much more frail or minimized by the aging process. I want the elderly to be honored, those wrinkles, those aging bodies carry so much untold and amazing history.

sometimes i eat alone, and i look around and i notice how many others do too…I am drawn to them.. wondering what their story is…. one doesn’t know if it is by choice, … or they are just not coupled and eat most of their meals on their own…

i have talked to people.. especially elderly people who have always been single or have lost a mate and the one time they can feel like they are amongst people is when they go to the diner .. and there they are greeted each morning, or evening like family… they come the same time every single day

San Francisco, Manhattan, Flushing ...the vibrancy of community ... markets, vendors, people fixing shoes and making keys, carrying pigs and noodles, lining up for dumplings, everyone in the mix ...

The parks ... men and women sitting and talking, some sleeping, shoes off ... birds chirping in their cages hung from the trees ... always games, gambling with cards or tiles, lots of women and men separated into circles of camaraderie, huddled for hours ...

These communities are like entering a zone ...one of demarcation: where it begins ... the stores, the markets, the foods, the fervor ... and where it ends ...

Familiar with the streets from so many visits, I have become one of them. I know my way. I walk, twisting and turning in and out of the streets and alleyways ... just  as they do ... they in search of a deal as they shop, I in search of my next image.

Bahia, Brazil

I’ve been visiting the Chassidic community in Williamsburg and Crown Heights, New York, for years. Often I feel like an outsider in a very closed, tight-knit community, but my desire to walk amongst them and penetrate into the tempo of their lives in the streets has kept me coming back. 

One of the primary purposes of Mayan rituals was to communicate with the gods and seek their guidance and blessings. The Mayans believed that the gods controlled every aspect of their lives, from the weather to the success of their crops. By performing rituals, they hoped to appease the gods and ensure their favor. These rituals often involved offerings of food, drink, and other valuable items, as well as the burning of incense and the chanting of prayers.

Symbolism played a crucial role in Mayan rituals and ceremonies. Many of their practices were based on the belief that everything in the world had a spiritual essence. Animals, plants, and even natural phenomena were seen as manifestations of the gods. The Mayans would often incorporate these elements into their rituals, using animal sacrifices or offering sacred plants as a way to connect with the divine. They believed that by participating in these symbolic acts, they could harness the power of the gods and bring about positive change in their lives.

“It was almost a non-spoken language between us. My dear friend Lisa and I spent years in each others company. I was always thinking photography and she was comfortable in front of the lens and it began as a natural pairing. We saw opportunities and naturally began shooting, sometimes for moments but many times for hours — a true collaboration of trust and intimacy.”

huge winds, windswept rain, lots of flooding up and down the east coat, power outages lasting for weeks and beyond.. a low lying community in the far rockaways was hit badly. .. homes toppled, destroyed, remnants of family life scattered in the sand and rubbish

driving around s tlucia always looking for the next off the grid area i can drive to meet people, see a way of life that still remains….. I am happiest in the simpliest of situations , especially when its mother nature surrounding us in abundance. i talk and ask and was told to drive up this road to the end out of an area of Soufriere.. it was a lovely drive up the mountain side and then ended with a dirt road…. well that is like a calling card for me… so off i went bumping alone on and on, when i finally see some folks coming down with their machetes… another good sign that farming is going on.. and i talk with them.. continue on and my stomach leaps.. a single man working his small plot on this mostly empty road…… he is farming carrots. pulling some up, planting some. .small seedling… taking out rocks in these beautiful pilings which to me look like art…. an hour or more easy i was there watching, talking to him. admiring his land and very old home…… later on i continued as high as i could go . until literally it became so rough i was wondering how id turn around on that narrowest of roads.. i managed. a bit touch and go but the most wonderful time. i could have laid down and died

Having travelled to Guatemala over a number of years i have been fortunate to come upon several funerals…. always getting out of my car and spending hours in the community , and walking alongside them as they made their procession through town where the community gathered to say goodbye…. it was often several hours of rituals, right up until the gates of their burial ground, where they finally laid the body to rest