Standing In the Living Room (2023)

My father was sick for many years. My early twenties were spent worrying that he would die. At house parties, graduation ceremonies, and taking my first hopeful steps into a career, the person who built my understanding of the world was deteriorating. When his life came to an end in 2021, I had no idea who I was or how to see my life without him in it. Gazing down at my camera roll full of old family photos, tears streaming, I regretted not taking more pictures of him. In a state of grief, I turned to the internet to find connection. A man named Larry immediately reached out. 

Larry and I talked on the phone before ever actually meeting. Strange coincidences kept emerging in our conversations. He and my dad grew up in the same place, followed the same guru in their spiritual practices, and both moved to Woodstock, New York, away from their Jewish upbringings.

After speaking for some time, he told me the story of his 32 year old son's fatal overdose that happened only a few years earlier. He spoke with emotion and was so expressive. The anger and confusion he felt about losing his son was bursting with every word. I revealed to him that my dad also lost a son to heroin. My half-brother died in 2009, but Dad was rarely expressive when talking about the loss. As a young adult, I was left alone to figure out what his death meant and to navigate becoming the “redemption child” in my father’s eyes. Larry’s willingness to be in pain awakened a compassionate response that began to lift the pressure I continued to put on myself, even after Dad’s death.

Why does opioid addiction continue to kill people in our small idyllic town? After a long pause between us, no answers arrived. That empty space of lacking any sort of answer for our shared grief sparked new life. We decided to meet and make pictures together for a year.

Travelling between both of our homes, our creative collaboration in identifying memories, objects, gestures, and environments related to our experiences of grief became a way to channel dormant emotions. Unconscious narratives about guilt, pressure, and regret began to emerge out of each creative act. The photograph became a catalyst for forward motion. 

Larry and I built a collaborative relationship based on a common understanding of our grief. He didn't fill the hole that my father's death left behind, but he allowed me to talk about the pain of losing a parent and a sibling. The work we made grew out of the process of spending time together and exploring what it means to find meaningful connection in strangers.