Nowadays we hide our dead in antiseptic rooms but not too long ago, we displayed their bodies in our homes. Sometimes we covered the mirrors, the legacy of an ancient belief that a reflection of the departed might trap their soul in the house, preventing passage into a better world. Those were days when our images were honored, even feared. We believed echoes and reflections were the sounds and sights of our souls. Today we grin in front of mountains and breakfast sandwiches. We traffic in faces. We crave our reflections, which brings to mind one of the oldest mirror stories: the tale of a young man who fell in love with his reflection and stared at it until he lost the will to live, eventually plunging a sword into his chest because he would never have the object of his desire.
Self-portrait in a Wisconsin hotel lounge, 2015
