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A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 14" x 21"
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A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 21" x 14"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 14" x 21"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 14" x 21"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 21" x 14"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 14" x 21"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 21" x 14"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 14" x 21"
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![]()
A Place, Shown to Me / 2018 / archival pigment print / 14" x 21"
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We all have maps in our heads. They lay out places we have been once, and places we have been a thousand times, strung together by threads of memory—a neighborhood sidewalk, an interstate. Paths scratched through the woods by feet dragging in the dirt.
My map shows me the way to class every day. It shows me to my favorite bakery back home, and takes me on a bike ride on a Sunday morning. It pulls me over streamside wooden bridges, down winding trails, and into thigh-high grass ignited by the rays of the setting sun. It takes me far away and brings me back home, and sometimes fails to do either. But getting lost, then found, on an ATV trail or a once-seen intersection adds a parcel of land to my map.
Just outside the borders, someone else’s map picks up the path where mine left off. When I was small and the world so large, my family’s map took me to Whale Rock for a childhood picnic extracted from a green JanSport backpack. When I got to Waterville, my brother added, piece by piece, to this extension attached to my previous life by a stretch of I-95.
Each quadrant holds a home, a pond, a stand of birches, a memory, a mystery. An emotion. A place is first shown, later known, and perhaps, through individual discovery, loved.
2018, Colby College, Waterville, ME
