I take photographs and I write. I’m drawn to the vague, the unspoken — to the threshold between the visible, association, and inner life. I work with grease and fluid on the lens. For the series “Portrait of a Meadow”, I wrote a poem:

Childhood Rests on Summer Meadows
Childhood rests on summer meadows
Drifting through the wheat fields
Brushing past silverleafed trees
Hot wind on bare legs
Sunlit hair and the wild love of a dog
Each day endless
between blossoms and woods and stream
Me on a swing
Me reading high in a tree
Me awake in morning dew,
the first in the garden, which now is mine
Some memories carry a whole life
When I was well, when I was strong, when I was a child
I can find it every summer
in the hours on the fields
in the clouds in the sky
Only—I‘ve grown so tired.

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