Grandpa said he regretted taking photographs of his children with a polaroid because now they were warping, fading. There was a photograph that was referenced every time we brought up pictures— his father on a bridge in Minnesota, I think, dressed in his military uniform on his way to the first world war. He always spoke about how sharp it was. He asked about the film in every camera I brought, perhaps wondering if it could make them as permanent as that photograph of his father. I think we both were.

I was fixated on his death long before it happened and felt guilty. It seems almost fitting now that I have these photos of his dead body and feel guiltier. I justify the images to myself every time I look at them, any time anyone else does— Gran asked me to take them.

Those photos are hidden in with sad attempts to bring a house back in time, to recreate a childhood with someone else’s children. Something to distract from the age— mine, the houses, its owners, maybe all of it.

Gran still hasn’t seen the photos.

This body of work was exhibited in the shows Uncomfortably Casual and From Afar in 2020.