'MAMMA, In the Meantime', Edition of 100
A collection of moments.
As soon as my mother moved in with me on September 1, 2014, both of our lives changed forever. She was ninety-one years old then and unable to look after herself any longer. She needed constant supervision and full-time care. Mom had broken her hip the previous year, and it was also around that time that she lost her memory. So I decided that she would come to stay with me. I live and work in a tiny, old, converted church in a small town with a very active artistic community. There's a picturesque river and a conservation park with wooded trails that practically begin in my backyard. Mom loves to walk.
Over three years have gone by now, and we get along very well together. Mom doesn't cook or wash clothes any longer, but she does a wonderful job keeping things tidy. Her “normal” has changed because of the dementia, and that's just fine with me. What is “normal” anyway?
Who decides?
I am a painter. Mom has become my go-to model. Most of my ideas for these photographs came from conversations with her. She loves posing and never questions my concepts for a scene. She is open to unusual situational settings, where anyone else would question the intent. But Mom—she just goes along with it. I explain my thoughts to her, show her thumbnail sketches I put together for potential shots, and I even visually act out the parts so she can see what I'd like. Then I bribe her with cookies. Mom follows through every time.
This series looks at her frailty, delves into her dementia and the angst she feels about being old now. But it also speaks about life, love, endurance and will power. It talks about the love a mother and child have in sharing moments too quickly, vanishing.
Time is slipping away. When this ride is over, I hope to be thankful for these precious moments with my Mamma.
As soon as my mother moved in with me on September 1, 2014, both of our lives changed forever. She was ninety-one years old then and unable to look after herself any longer. She needed constant supervision and full-time care. Mom had broken her hip the previous year, and it was also around that time that she lost her memory. So I decided that she would come to stay with me. I live and work in a tiny, old, converted church in a small town with a very active artistic community. There's a picturesque river and a conservation park with wooded trails that practically begin in my backyard. Mom loves to walk.
Over three years have gone by now, and we get along very well together. Mom doesn't cook or wash clothes any longer, but she does a wonderful job keeping things tidy. Her “normal” has changed because of the dementia, and that's just fine with me. What is “normal” anyway?
Who decides?
I am a painter. Mom has become my go-to model. Most of my ideas for these photographs came from conversations with her. She loves posing and never questions my concepts for a scene. She is open to unusual situational settings, where anyone else would question the intent. But Mom—she just goes along with it. I explain my thoughts to her, show her thumbnail sketches I put together for potential shots, and I even visually act out the parts so she can see what I'd like. Then I bribe her with cookies. Mom follows through every time.
This series looks at her frailty, delves into her dementia and the angst she feels about being old now. But it also speaks about life, love, endurance and will power. It talks about the love a mother and child have in sharing moments too quickly, vanishing.
Time is slipping away. When this ride is over, I hope to be thankful for these precious moments with my Mamma.
UPDATE:
It's winter 2017 now and mom is living in a very nice retirement home just a few minutes away from me
This past summer, she fell and broke her left arm while out on one of her regular walks about town. It was a sign for me to acknowledge. She needed to be living in a safer place. I have stairs. It was dangerous for her here. Once her arm healed, the temporary place and with constant supervision, became home to her. The dementia got to a point where she can't remember much any more.
She doesn't even know my name.
I visit her as often as I can, sometimes every day. I always leave wanting to bring her back with me, but I know she is safe and well taken care of there.
I feel at peace with it.
Somewhere, hiding in her head, I think she knows it's best for the both of us.
It's winter 2017 now and mom is living in a very nice retirement home just a few minutes away from me
This past summer, she fell and broke her left arm while out on one of her regular walks about town. It was a sign for me to acknowledge. She needed to be living in a safer place. I have stairs. It was dangerous for her here. Once her arm healed, the temporary place and with constant supervision, became home to her. The dementia got to a point where she can't remember much any more.
She doesn't even know my name.
I visit her as often as I can, sometimes every day. I always leave wanting to bring her back with me, but I know she is safe and well taken care of there.
I feel at peace with it.
Somewhere, hiding in her head, I think she knows it's best for the both of us.