"This is what I wanted," you'd think. "Not the river, not the city - just her leading, me staying close enough to catch the world the way she does."

The nights are gone, the seas are steam, the fields are ash—and yet, in this final hour, all is clothed in beauty. Even ruin is gilded. Even absence glows in a silence deeper than mourning.

A fiery god behind smoke, swelled upon the horizon, unhurried and complete, the world seemed not destroyed but transfigured. For this was no ending, but a benediction: a red giant's hymn, sung over the bones of the earth, turning all things to gold one last time

The Sun, in the zenith of its final bloom, had ceased to be a star and become instead a great presence, vast and solemn, its effulgence both terrible and tender

In 1994, for his private work, my Father had taken portraits of ship carpenters who built a large antique-style wooden ship, the San Juan Bautista.

These were washed white, the images disappearing. These scars are similar to my memories, which I am slowly losing. All of these photos were taken by my father. My memories came rushing back, even if parts of the images are lost. They showed an evidence of our history: we have lived here.

I found my father’s large-format camera, some lenses, a strobe light, and his tripod scattered around our house. These became symbolic items representing what the photo studio used to be. When I found them, I felt my parents wanted to remind us, "We were here!"