I started spending more serious time in graveyards in 2004, during a trip to New Orleans. At that point, I just wanted to take pictures of angels, an angel binge that lasted through Vienna, Prague, London, and the wonderful Victorian cemetery in Rochester, NY called Mount Hope, among others. I’d never really thought much about angels before, just enjoyed looking at them in the setting of the churchyard. They ranged from the cute, cuddly putti to fierce warrior angels with raised swords and serious scowls; from gorgeous, dreamy damsels, to languid, effeminate angels covered so heavily with moss they look like they suffered from leprosy.
Bringing the images home, I began to make friends with these beings, who seemed so alive. Isolating them from their mossy, peaceful environments via pixels saved on a chip and later reassembled on a computer screen hundreds of miles away, the angels were telling me that yes, they are indeed alive.
Eventually, I began to think of the graveyard as a borderland, a place where there is a veil between life and death that one could attempt to reach through.