Artist Statement

Fedco on La Cienega wasn’t just a store; it was an experience, a feeling, an echo of times past. Every weekend, like clockwork, our family would make this pilgrimage. For my sisters, clad in childish glee, the journey was about toys and the latest dresses. Their giggles and hushed whispers, as they flitted around with my mother, echoed the excitement of discoveries yet to be made.

My own journey, however, took a different route. Accompanied by my father, we would tread towards the camera department, a sanctuary of mechanical wonders. The space was a symphony of colors, textures, and technologies. There, my father and I would lose ourselves, meticulously studying and discussing every new camera and gadget that graced the shelves. The attention to detail, the nuance in his voice, the glint in his eyes as he talked about photography was nothing short of enchanting. It was in these moments, amidst lenses and shutters, that I glimpsed a world beyond the mundane.

But the enchantment didn’t end there. Once our camera escapade concluded, we'd shift our attention to the Kodak film display. The shelves seemed endless, with countless boxes labeled with varying speeds, film for different lighting conditions and artistic preferences. Each tiny box whispered tales of potential, housing a little canister brimming with boundless possibilities. As a tradition, my father would gesture towards them, allowing me the honor of choosing a roll. It felt like being handed the keys to a magical realm.

With our prize secured, the week ahead was an adventure waiting to unfold. Every evening, post school and work, we'd immerse ourselves in capturing moments. With every snap, he’d impart wisdom, explaining the mysteries of the film type we had chosen. His lessons were never just technical; they were a mix of art, emotion, and life.

The thrill heightened whenever he bought a new camera. For, in our silent understanding, this meant his old treasure would now be cradled in my eager hands. I'd hold them, feeling their worn textures, knowing they had witnessed countless moments through his eyes. These cameras weren't mere devices; they were storytellers, and now they whispered their tales to me.

It was during one of those magical Sundays, perhaps while gazing at a photograph or during a lesson in our makeshift darkroom, that a realization dawned upon me. I hadn’t just developed a hobby; I had fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with photography.

As years flowed, adulthood brought changes. Analog, with its tangible beauty, was overtaken by the allure of digital. The digital realm promised more: seamless integration, unparalleled manipulation capabilities, and the addictive rush of instant results. I was enticed, and for a while, it felt right. Yet, amidst the pixels and software, a void persisted.

Life has its twists, and facing a life-threatening illness was mine. In those moments of vulnerability and reflection, I realized the missing piece. I yearned for the tactile beauty of analog – the unmistakable sound of a mechanical shutter, the magic of watching a grainy black and white image emerge from the obscurity of a developing solution. These weren't just processes; they were memories, moments, lifelines.

Emerging from the throes of illness, I made a choice. It was time to reconnect, to rekindle the passion that once defined me. Every click, every film roll, every grain on a photograph wasn't just an image. It was a piece of my soul, a fragment of time, a memory etched in eternity.

Today, as an artist, my canvas is vast, but my aim is singular. With every photograph, I strive to transform the potential of those tiny canisters into a tangible memory, evoking the raw emotion and nostalgia of yesteryears. It's more than just art; it's a piece of my heart, shared with the world.