12” x 16” - Stencils on translucent Mylar paper - May 2018

STORY:

On January 18th 2018, our son Caleb was born. A whole-hearted miracle.

A fearless soul given an endless supply of oxygen he didn’t have the lungs to breathe.

In an instant, all imaginings of father-son everythings and mamma’s boy magic evaporated when the universe took back our little angel.

Doctors warned us he was very unlikely to breathe a single breath. Instead, over the course of 8 hours, he breathed for an entire lifetime.

Our hearts will never forget the words “we’ve done everything we can.” Trust me, the tears of a doctor provide no comfort.

Back in his mother’s arms, reunited with the sound of her safe, comforting heartbeat, Caleb understood his fate, his finality. Air left his body, never to return again.

They put up the privacy wall and told us, “Take as long as you need.” Everyone in the ward, staff included, knew how absurd a statement that was.

How long do you hold your dead son until it’s been long enough to give him back? Impossible to answer. So...

Impossible hands performed the impossible task of returning him to his tiny bed.

Impossible feet performed the impossible task of walking away from him.

The feeling will never go away. But the image will slowly escape. Light will creep in and expand until it has devoured everything. This is the curse of the human memory.

We remember an original image only once. The first time. Then we recall recollections.

We recall a memory, of a memory, of a memory. Each version is less precise than the first.

Thin layers of fog settle on and around your precious memory until eventually, all you can recall is a white plane through which seep the faintest shadows where your son used to be.

It’s only a mask, though. Nothing has been, or will ever be erased. And no matter how many layers of fog accumulate, and no matter how faint the shadows become, you know you’re both under there. You keep repeating to yourself that time is not linear. It cant be. You know there exists a time and space in which your Caleb is still in your arms. He is still breathing. And you are there right now. You always will be, because you always have been.

TECHNICAL DETAILS:

This is a painting of me holding my son. It is spray paint on Mylar paper.

The painting has been covered by 7 sheets of translucent Mylar paper. Each sheet represents a new layer of memory fog. The decision to stop at 7 sheets was because, in my current state, this is as much detail I wish to allow to seep through.

This piece is complete now as a concept, but it will never truly stop evolving. Whoever holds this piece in the future (myself included) may decide to add or remove sheets of Mylar paper to change the level of clarity to suit his or her needs at any given moment. My relationship with my son and the memory of him is interactive. It will continue to ebb and flow. And so it is necessary that this piece continue to evolve and interact with whoever holds it.