The other night I lifted my laptop from my desk and the red 2 terabyte hard drive that holds nearly half the work I’ve made this year toppled towards the ground. I reconnected the drive and it went unrecognized by the computer. I tried to play it cool. I strolled the hallway, sat in a chair, read half of a page in a book, and checked Twitter. The thought that all of the work was simply lost became unbearable. I snapped out of it and thought “none of this is 'cool' this is my work!”. With nervous hands, I re-housed the drive and the data was resurrected. In response to that moment, I reviewed all of the photographs I took this year, across four hard drives, with hopes of finding the ones that could be considered ‘representative’ of my photographic endeavors in 2016.
As I looked through the photos it occurred to me that the details of the non-abstract mental negotiations ( not to mention the super abstract moods that flavored them) leading to their captures were vague and only getting vaguer. The “function” of the photographs became something separate from representation, divorced (liberated?) from their origins. After the review, I think of the images as much as distortions as they are inventories of space and light, I think of them as what John Berger (RIP) would call "arranged interiors"
Although none of these photographs have been printed they are still objects that demand preservation. This digital world is deceptive in its guarantees of forever, with its infinite promises and endless streams. I don’t know what makes a photograph worthwhile but I do know that when I look at these I see documents of my preoccupations, which are bound to change throughout this new year.