As a child I spent a lot of time in the backseat of my mom’s ‘73 butterscotch-orange Monte Carlo. Mom at the wheel, she’d tote me around during Saturday morning errands and I’d daydream and gaze out the windows as classic rock flowed from tinny speakers. There were trips to the Italian grocery store, the bank teller’s drive-up window, maybe a shoe sale, and there were drop-ins on aunts', uncles' and grandparents’ houses. As the car made its way, I soaked in the sights and sounds of our northeast Ohio roadsides.
My love for going for a drive remains strong, but these days I pull over a lot more than mom ever did. I enjoy nothing more than roaming around a new place and opening myself up to all of its details and characters, not a place pocked with Anywhere, America, signage, but a locale well-worn and impressed by the handiwork of enterprising men, women, and children.
There is supreme possibility and pleasure in wandering. The joy of exploring unfamiliar places never fails to produce a troupe of storytelling objects and characters. My images are souvenirs and reminders of what lies out there in the world, too often unnoticed.