On The 18th September 1975, at exactly 1 year and 4 months old, an unknown woman threw me from Battersea Bridge into the River Thames.
I should have drowned; I nearly did, but for two young men jogging by who saw the incident and dived in the river after me just seconds after I slipped under the surface of the water. I have no conscious memory of that day, no lingering fear of water, as might have been the case. However, I now see that the event left invisible marks on my psyche that has manifested itself in my dreams and in my visual language.
At the time of the incident my family had just emigrated from New York to London 6 months earlier, leaving generations of friendships and memories behind them. Growing up in London, my siblings and my only connection with our past were the photographs that were in this big faded pink album they had. I don’t how many times we would sit together and spend what felt like whole afternoons sifting through the yellowed pages of that photo album.
Those photographs of my parents childhood in America seemed gilded, filled with laughter, friendships and landscapes that filled me with a longing for an unknown homeland that was so poignant it felt like heart break. I understood then the power of photography; the incredible art of capturing love, halting time, and leaving a visual reminder of our passage in this vast universe.