“I discovered my river when I was three years old. I was on a berry-picking expedition with my mother. It was early fall.
Though I don’t remember directly, we were probably picking highbush cranberries. The aspen leaves were just starting to drift down; still a pale yellow, not the deeper yellow of deep fall. I watched one leaf float down. I see it still and, behind it, my river. I shouted the discovery to my mother. She turned and put her finger to her lips, and I realized that the river was an important secret.
Over the years, I have had many opportunities to report the location of my river to municipal, provincial, and federal authorities, but I never have.”
So said I the first time I exhibited this series. In Annie Dillard’s book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, she speaks of having the realization, while sitting by Tinker Creek in the dark, that it isn’t running anywhere, something is pushing the damn thing. The My River series is a work in progress. Images surface and are swept along. The river’s location remains my secret.
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