I’m one of those people who loves organization. I like to sort and cull and question. Having too much of anything makes it hard to find the things I really love. Every so often I go through the bookmarks in my folder of Favorite Photographers. Sometimes my taste has changed and I delete a link because the work doesn’t resonate with me. Sometimes the link is broken and taken over by some weird stuff or advertisements. And sometimes I spend an afternoon falling in love with photography all over again.

I came across a bookmark for the work of Jodie Hulden, and I’ll admit her name didn’t seem familiar at first. I opened the link and quickly realized why I had chosen to follow her work. Her projects, Left Behind, and Seeing Silence, are deeply moving and beautiful. Those were the images that drew me to her. But as I looked further, I came across her groupings of 4 photos, arranged like the panes of window, Quatrains. The photos were all taken during the seasons of Covid-19, in alleys, as Jodie continued her work while social distancing.

This has been the blessing of being a photographer. Despite the many restrictions, we’ve been able to carry on . . . making photographs in one way or another . . . poetic and contemplative.

I find myself doing the same.

My grandma, Nannie Mae, lived in a small house on a hill overlooking Rosier Creek in rural King George county. She never learned to drive so she depended on friends and family to take her here and there. Places like church and doctor appointments. Visitors often brought groceries and plants and good company. The postal carrier brought letters from her daughter in Texas, and she dutifully read them aloud to us all. And sometimes things just showed up — like the dog that made its way down the long dirt road to her house. Grandma felt obliged to feed the dog and so he made himself at home and stayed. She was not sentimental about pets but not hard-hearted enough to send the dog away. She tolerated the old dog and named him exactly what he was, Trouble.