My father, now past mid-nineties, has grown forgetful of what happens day to day. When we speak on the phone, which is almost daily, I sometimes walk him through the fields we used to own and harvest hay on. We go one by one, just like we did every summer during my childhood. They all have a name; that's how we oriented ourselves. Every bit of land we put our feet on could be named or described as adjacent to something. I do the exercise half for myself, so I don't forget. While my Dad can no longer recall the names of the places, I know they light up something in him when he hears them.

The place I come from has a hold on me. The mountain jutting forward at the end of the valley. The wind, the way it knocks on the shutters, the splashing water in the fountain, all call me back every year.

I photograph so I won't forget. I am friends with time. Everything that was still is. Time piles up. Experiences pile up. Memories pile up. Like haystacks containing the answers to my existence.

A friend who knows me really well said about my book: "It's a love letter to your family, the village, its people, the place, the culture, and your language." Some of the people who came to the opening had tears in their eyes when I read the text to “Mom’s Hands”. I like to make people cry. When the memory clears, one’s heart feels lighter. 

My projects are all personal inquiries into things I try to understand. Things I try to remember — all part of finding my place, which is somewhere between Vrin and Los Angeles.