good bones

“It has good bones,” says my mother, injecting life into furniture, fixtures, and façades, making them worthy of our contemplation and respect. I grew up with a fascination for the ordinary; the bones of our manmade world and the stories that they tell.

My first “job” was sorting through wads of forgotten costume jewelry in the stuffed homes of old money Richmond. I could barely tie my shoes, but I could untangle a necklace. I was five, and my mother had her own business settling estates for wealthy West End families. While my mother worked, I would situate myself on the floor in a quiet corner and get to work on the baubles and bangles. My fingers were small and my patience was infinite, knowing my work would be rewarded when I was allowed to take home one favorite piece freed from the mass of clasps and chains.

I was raised—in very small part—in the dust clouds of other people's houses, and that experience helped to shape the way that I appreciate the story of stuff. The bones of an object. I use photography as a means of exploring the vernacular, the shapes and structures that we create, and our relationships with those things once we have created them.