I grew up in a house of secrets. From the outside, it was an ordinary white-picketed colonial on a dead-end street. But past the eagle doorknocker, the only constant was that what happened within was private, never to be verbalized much less shared. Homes are supposed to be sanctuaries, but there was no safety there.
Truth is solid ground. Without it, all is adrift, and one cannot live forever floating. The mind searches for stability, playing and replaying events until it is difficult to separate memories from dreams. In the end, all that’s left are a handful of facts and a head full of stories that no longer feel like your own.
Just as glass is created by intense heat, ice is formed by intense cold. Both are fragile, reflective, and transparent. And both create life-framing windows and mirrors. Fire and ice, repressed rage and cold-hearted indifference, overt fear and quiet longing, all can fill photographic frames with narrative possibilities.
By Susan Keiser