Memory is never a perfect copy. It compresses, it edits, it fills in the gaps with what we needed to be true. Here — Memory lies is a cyanotype print series exploring the unreliable architecture of grief, memory, and inherited identity — made from two sets of photographs that never existed together in life. Childhood images layered with pictures taken on a first trip to Puerto Rico, an island that belonged to a father before it ever belonged to me.
Each print asks what we keep, what we invent, and what gets lost in the translation between the people we loved and the stories we tell about them. The cyanotype process — unpredictable, light-dependent, chemical — felt like the only honest way to make this work. Something had to be left to chance. Something always is.
Here — Memory Lies
Made from cyanotype prints, raw canvas, red thread, and coffee-stained photographs. The canvas holds discarded negatives — the memory that didn't make the cut. What's tethered in red is what was chosen to keep.
The piece is modular — its configuration shifts with the space it's shown in. There is no single, correct arrangement, the same way there's no single, correct memory.
