In death, all we leave behind are our objects and the intangible impact we have had on those around us. My grandfather, who passed away the summer of 2018, suffered from Alzheimer's. As his memories were corrupted, I watched him slowly lose his identity to the disease. Every time my family would make the trip to visit, he would give me and my sister a bag of quarters to split. He’d always tell us to spend them on something special, but I never would. It became a ritual; come home from Mammaw and Pappaw’s, help unload the car, put the quarters in my piggy bank for safekeeping. I have saved nearly every single quarter he has given to me.

 

When my grandfather started to slip away, a lot of things changed. He was an avid storyteller, always ready to regale us with some embellished fishing trip or retell fond memories of family and friends. His embellished stories once told with great passion were soon reduced to broken narratives the storyteller could no longer follow. But one thing that never changed was his gift of quarters. It’s painful for me to tap into these memories. It’s scary because I am afraid of losing the memories that I have of him. We live on in memory, but--as I have witnessed first hand--these memories are fragile and easily corrupted over time. Each time we recall a memory, it is subtly changed. The objects in this body of work are physical memories left behind by my grandfather, tangible proof of his existence. They are more than precious to me, I have venerated them. Given enough time, the sentimental objects we hold dear will eventually lose their venerated status. Their history will be forgotten, returning every quarter and fishing lure to its original mundane context. 

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This body of work is meant to preserve my objects of veneration, to slow their transition from votive back to commonplace. Bespoke boxes contain forgotten family film reels and posthumously gifted quarters. This act of veneration changes or denies an object its original function. The film reels can no longer be threaded through a projector. The quarters in this exhibition are no longer worth 25 cents and most certainly are not viable currency. What happens when something becomes so precious to us, we are afraid to interact with it? I see a parallel between my tendency to tuck away my venerated objects and my reluctance to recall memories of my grandfather. Each piece in this body of work forces me to confront my collection of objects and the memories I have attached to them. It is a ritualistic act, weaving fishing line over and under each strip of film or meticulously arranging every quarter. Through these acts of extreme labor, I sit with myself and the emotional weight each object holds. I am confronting my grief, my fear of loss, my mortality. This work is meant to honor the memories of my grandfather and keep them from collecting dust on my shelves.

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