We’re finished with our project, and I miss it already. I miss thinking about the pictures, the poems, the design of the book, and the almost daily communication with Susan. This body of work called to me, pushed me, shaped me, and in some moments felt as though it might break me. But in the end, the entire project was a gift that lightened my load and gave me a fresh perspective. I am filled with hope—not the kind that denies the realities of life, but the kind that offers compassion and nurtures. I am grateful to Susan for writing the exquisite poems that elevated my photography and for sharing her heart in a way that helped to heal us both.
About: Natural Histories is a book of photographs and poems, the result of a beautiful chemistry between two artists. I believe with my whole heart that a book can change a life, and this one has changed mine.
Where to View: I’m sharing a few pages of Natural Histories here. You can read more about the work on my Projects page and see the full book, flip style, courtesy of MILK photo books on my Books page.
How to Purchase: Books printed on demand, like this one, are expensive to print. But the quality of MILK photo books is outstanding, and this is one area where I do not want to settle or compromise. This project is personal and we never intended to make books to sell, but if you’d like to purchase one for yourself, let me know, and I’ll send you a link for 30 percent off the full price (even then the book still costs about $155).
Why: I’ll leave you with this explanation from Clément Chéroux, guest editor of the latest issue of The PhotoBook Review, on the evolution of the photobook and its community, from the article, Why the “Photobook Phenomenon” Is More than Just a Fad.
This Moment of Absolute Joy
“I need to confess here that I have a very sensory relationship with books. Once the cellophane wrapping has been removed from the book, I open it and, with an almost Pavlovian reflex, plunge my nose into the hollows between the pages. Its odor is a mix of glue, ink, and paper. I unfold the dust jacket to see if it is hiding any details deliberately concealed from the surface gaze. “Photography is a secret about a secret,” said Diane Arbus. I caress the grain of the paper with the flat of my palm. I follow the outline of the embossing with my fingertips. I enjoy hearing the cracking of the binding. My thumb on the edge of the pages, I feel the flexibility of the paper and free the pages in a cadence guided by my curiosity. After this initial phase of approaching the book, I put it down and slowly begin its discovery from cover to cover. I scrutinize the colophon, read the texts, and pause for a long time in front of certain images; I evaluate the page layout, go back a few pages, open the folding plates, then carefully close them again so as not to damage them. The history of photography has, for years, been marked by an uninterrupted pursuit of speed. Those who have tried to improve it have always sought to make it faster: from the instantaneity of the shot (Kodak, 1888), to the reduction of the development time (Polaroid, 1948), to the immediacy of sharing (Instagram, 2007). In my own relations with images, I very much enjoy the deceleration imposed by the photobook. It allows a richer appreciation than the hasty scrolling of images stimulated by a nervous movement of the thumb against the screen of a smartphone. Seated at a table or in an armchair, with the book nicely placed between my eye and my hand, I feel as though a force field is becoming harmonized, as though something is finding its equilibrium, as in a yoga position. When I think about it carefully, it seems crazy how much intensity a mere stack of partly inked sheets of paper, assembled in a certain order, held between two thicker cardboard sheets, can contain.”
