Familiar Strangers Artist Statement
Shoebox Archives
Something magic happened when I was looking at some old black-and-white snapshots. They were small, faded, and blurry—like ghosts from the past—and maybe that was part of their powerful pull. Staring at them felt like hearing fragments of old stories. They triggered something like a dream or a memory.
The people in the photos might be connected to me—or they might not. Their gestures are awkward or ambiguous but somehow familiar, and that intrigues me. I wonder what their stories are. Why was the picture taken? What were they doing? They don’t seem to be doing much of anything—maybe just waiting for the next thing. They were photographed just before or just after some- thing else, something that remains unseen. Did the photographer say “Hold on” or “Wait a minute” before snapping the shutter?
From this distance, the images speak to the inexorable march of time. Whoever these people are—or were—I find them compel- ling. They’re funny, sad, awkward, familiar. I’m embarrassed by them, angry at them, proud of them, ashamed of them, sorry for them, envious of them, grateful for them, and ultimately, sympathetic to them. Painting them is my way of honoring them, and perhaps of cheating time a little by extending these odd, lost moments, and adding a new layer to their stories.
These are familiar people, even if they’re not actually my people. I may know some of them, but I wasn’t there. And even if I was, I wasn’t the “me” I am now. I’m someone else, and I can’t know what they—or I—were really thinking or feeling in that moment. There’s a story in each photo, but it’s a different story for everyone: those who were there, those who remember being there, and those who only heard about it secondhand. The recorded moment might have been significant—or not—but either way, it’s now frozen, a trigger for reflection.
Familiar Strangers Artist Statement
Shoebox Archives
Something magic happened when I was looking at some old black-and-white snapshots. They were small, faded, and blurry—like ghosts from the past—and maybe that was part of their powerful pull. Staring at them felt like hearing fragments of old stories. They triggered something like a dream or a memory.
The people in the photos might be connected to me—or they might not. Their gestures are awkward or ambiguous but somehow familiar, and that intrigues me. I wonder what their stories are. Why was the picture taken? What were they doing? They don’t seem to be doing much of anything—maybe just waiting for the next thing. They were photographed just before or just after some- thing else, something that remains unseen. Did the photographer say “Hold on” or “Wait a minute” before snapping the shutter?
From this distance, the images speak to the inexorable march of time. Whoever these people are—or were—I find them compel- ling. They’re funny, sad, awkward, familiar. I’m embarrassed by them, angry at them, proud of them, ashamed of them, sorry for them, envious of them, grateful for them, and ultimately, sympathetic to them. Painting them is my way of honoring them, and perhaps of cheating time a little by extending these odd, lost moments, and adding a new layer to their stories.
These are familiar people, even if they’re not actually my people. I may know some of them, but I wasn’t there. And even if I was, I wasn’t the “me” I am now. I’m someone else, and I can’t know what they—or I—were really thinking or feeling in that moment. There’s a story in each photo, but it’s a different story for everyone: those who were there, those who remember being there, and those who only heard about it secondhand. The recorded moment might have been significant—or not—but either way, it’s now frozen, a trigger for reflection.