I had a plan. I would drive up to Pittsburgh for an extended weekend to photograph places that once meant something to me, and perhaps still do. I would visit what used to be my grandmother's house and take a quick picture from the street. (She's been dead and gone for more than a decade.) It was her garage door that interested me. I thought to frame it straight-on, fill the frame proportionally with that rectangular door. When I visited her in my youth, I would throw it open, march through the garage, past my grandfather's aging tools, onto the back porch and into her kitchen where she'd be waiting with kisses that could taste chocolate on my cheeks. I would take Route 51 to get there, bypassing the tubes and continuing along 51 to the West End Bridge. I planned to stop around West Carson Street and walk across the bridge, maybe look up and photograph those cables reaching upward, hanging onto the giant yellow arch spanning the Ohio River. I may even look toward the city, take a picture from the bridge, just to see what my Nikon would do from that distance at F16. I would visit my father's grave -- also dead and gone, for almost as long as his mother -- to photograph that sandstone wall that I always use as a reference point to guide me to his grave, after a few laps around the cemetery. This plan was beginning to feel good, making sense. The right antidote for whatever it was that I felt then. I always seem to reach for home, a home that I've traveled far from, for grounding during times of change. So, off I went.
And nothing happened as planned. The battery died on my Nikon, the weather was poor, and I became distracted by something else -- my mother's home. I've never lived there, and those artifacts she uses to curate her space are as foreign to me as the idea of a nuclear family. What puzzled me was a peculiar feeling that I was welcome in a place I felt estranged from, a place I could not recognize from my youth. Confused, yet alert and interested, I picked-up my camera, lifted it to my face, touching my face, always touching, looked through the viewfinder, and began composing images, letting light do its work when it could.