Liséa Lyons

LISÉA LYONS

I wonder how the mind decides which memories to keep. There are certain moments you can always return to, never knowing why. Not the graduation, births, and weddings, but the strange summer day where nothing ever seemed to happen. The significance of these slivers of time is just as obscure as the remembered scenario itself. It seems odd and almost unseettling that you can still see the colors and feel the temperature of what was just another day.

I used to feel certain I was documenting something - a time or place in my daughter’s life; it was actually my connection to her world. I felt consumed by thoughts about our domestic space and my role within it. As time passed and I abruptly changed the familiar landscape there was a new twist. In her world I began to see my memories, my ordinary days, fears, and dark spaces. Now the stories overlap and fold into one another. The picture becomes a window, a mirror, and can root itself in the place where those fragments and slivers live.