Sixty-Five Days of Quarantine Recorded through My Studio Window

24”x64” (cyanotype & palladium on watercolor paper)

Through the frame of my windowpanes, I photographed winter turn to spring as snow melted to give way to green pastures. I layered the imagery of sixty-five days as time blurred, simultaneously feeling gradual and rapid, only my camera seeming to keep pace.

Time marked by school, excursions and meetings were suspended, replaced with markers found within the landscape. The seasons in the Rocky Mountains differentiate themselves in an obvious pattern of color, light and sound. It has been spectacular to witness.

As I embarked on a project to record time through still images, I thought about the family album. We see growth through the changing appearances similar to the change in seasons. The world will forever be changed by this pandemic, marked by the scars of loss but as I have witnessed the change in my backyard, I am hopeful for what is to come.

Window Above Front Door

20”x20” (cyanotype & palladium on watercolor paper)

Christmas night, a great horned owl flew into our window. The crash occurred around midnight, waking me up and sending me running into my son’s room thinking the sound was him falling from his crib. I returned to my room a few minutes later confused by what had caused the loud noise.

The next morning, I awoke early to make coffee. I noticed the fragmented light while crossing from the living room to the kitchen. I looked up to see the window above our front door shattered. I timidly peeked outside and was confronted with a huge, magnificent bird.

We spent the morning watching the bird through our window. The owl was still alive but in shock. We could tell by the frozen excrement that the bird had been there all night. Shortly before lunch, our neighbor’s dog spooked the owl and he/she flew away.

The experience has become legend in our family. My children daily remanence about the owl. We have two owls that we listen to every night from our backdoor. Now we speak as if we know one of them.

When we make a home so much of it is through shared experiences in a place that hopefully feels safe and comforting. The house in so many ways just creates the backdrop for a home but there are moments when the architecture plays a pivotal role. I was sad that the owl crashed into our window but thankful he/she survived. The owl granted our family a powerful Christmas experience one that we will never forget. Our windows cannot speak, but if you look close enough you can still see a crack though the pane was replaced. It’s a blemish that my family alone knows the reason. I wonder if the next will ever even notice it.

Shower Reflections

24”x32” (cyanotype & palladium on watercolor paper)

My shower windows overlook onto a beautiful aspen grove and our laundry line. The trees bring me peace, but the laundry line always gives me a bit of anxiety. Rocky Mountain springs have one foot in winter so it’s a constant battle between rain, snow, sun and sleet to try to find that magic moment to dry clothes. This captures my son, Rowan’s, forgotten onesie on the line during a hailstorm. I didn’t realize I had missed it, until I was in the shower.

View from Bathroom Window, Reflected in the Mirror

8”x16” (cyanotype & palladium on watercolor paper)

This Piece is a layering of images shot in the mirror over the course of our quarantine. The bathroom has become a very busy spot for our family as my one and half year old is being potty trained by his five-year-old sister.

Emmalou’s Bedroom Window: Day with a piece of Night, 2020.

22”x32” (palladium and cyanotype on watercolor paper)

Emmalou’s Bedroom Window: Day with a piece of Night. Presently, this is the backdrop to James and the Giant Peach, Alice in Wonderland and the collection of the young Nancy Drew books. She is passionate about stories in all their shapes and forms. If we are not reading to her, she is making up stories to go along with her books or begging us to tell her a story. Her window is an escape into fairytales and conversations centered around magic. It is comforting place to begin and end each day. This is our reclined view from her bed usually with a book in hand.

Living Room Day

32”x24” (cyanotype & palladium watercolor paper)

During the day our living room is chaos, littered with blocks, crayons, paper, balls, hockey sticks, books and tractor toys. I am constantly trying to balance order with play. It is challenging to maintain because my idea of sanity varies greatly from my children’s.

The living room is where family gathers together unlike a bedroom where we isolate. It is important for our relationships to have communal and separate space. I think my children will realize the importance of their own rooms as they grow, but right now personal space is a foreign concept even bathroom activities are events shared by everyone.

At night, peace is restored to the living room. I pour a glass of wine and clean one last time before I try to relax on the couch with my husband. In winter we sit by a fire and in summer we keep the windows open to listen to the night.

As I reflect on the duality provided in this family space, I can see my childhood living room. I imagine the holidays of my youth, winter nights by the fireplace, teenage phone conversations, moments I found myself alone picking up the objects my mother loved, and the chaos my siblings and I must have created.

Over our daily conversations, I can tell my mother desperately misses the time when her own living room was filled with disorder. Her rooms are now silent magnified by isolation. I can feel in her voice that silence is louder than shouting.

I know there will come a day that I too will feel saddened by the quiet exuding from our walls, so I am trying to treasure the duality of day and night in our living room. I know there will be a time when the voices cease to be childlike and disorder is only my own. I will no longer experience the daily transition of time in our living room.

Living Room Night

32”x24” (cyanotype & palladium watercolor paper)