I’m intrigued by the unextraordinary. A lamppost’s chipped paint. Strands of string coiled around a boulder. A shard of glass in a puddle, or a frayed net bending in the breeze.
When I shoot something that grabs my attention, I often don’t know how it will fit with the thousands of other things I’ve photographed. It’s only when I start to arrange the photos—usually as a grid of nine—that I get to build out a visual story of place, color, form, mood, or point of view. I swap out one, switch in another, reconfigure and rework, over and over, trying different iterations until a cohesive tapestry emerges. On closer look, the kelly green undercoat that peeks out from the chipped black lamppost is a map, a verdant landmass surrounded by a black ocean. Placed next to the hot pink string neatly tied in a bow on a construction site, the electric cobalt glass caught in a Midtown rain shower, and the burnt orange remains of a once-protective mesh fence, a neon narrative begins to unfold.
It can take years to finalize a group of photos that belong together. Once I do, I call it a Found Construction.