ABSTRACT
A gallery of photographs has adorned the walls of my various apartments since I left the Boston home of my great-grandmother in 1971 to live in New York City. Each of the faces—my mother, Dolores; her mother, Lydia; her mother Grace; and yet another, Sarah, before her; alongside my father, brother, step-mother—has each in its own turn been a focal point for me. Most often though it has been the face of my great-grandmother Grace, the woman who raised me, that most fascinated me. She, who was always most reticent to have her soul captured on a piece of shining paper. Her square Iowa tribal face was often shielded by wire spectacles that concealed her impish humor but not her unyielding resolve. From my childhood perspective (one I’ve clung to until most recently), she embodied the security of my youth, the impressive influence of our past and the endurance of African/Native American women.
