A few years ago, I started walking through the cemetery about once a week with a camera - I was suffering the photographer's equivalent of writer's block.
The image making process quickly became a form of walking meditation as I watched the four seasons come and go, the life of the trees, the tourists, the caretakers, surrounded by the remembrances of beings who once lived.
Momento mori,
et in Arcadia ego,
ashes to ashes and dust to dust
and all that. Do I hear the whispers of the past in my images, or are they only a documentation of our death rituals, our need to create a city for the dead?
Re-looking at my pictures, I do not know what they mean to me, but the cemetery gates are calling. They are only a five minutes walk from where I live.
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