I have never liked the cold. In fact, my heart sinks a little in late June when the days start shortening, already anticipating the crisper air and withering leaves of fall. Yet, by early March, I am enheartened by the fact that I am as far away as possible from the next winter. I find comfort in the cyclicality of the seasons; the hope of yellow light and balmy nights is always on the horizon, even on the iciest of days. But aging is linear, and once we've passed the peak of our summer years, it is chilling for me to accept that they are permanently behind us. For the past several years, through photography, I have been exploring my emotional state and physical changes resulting from time marching forward. This series of images has allowed me to examine how my aging body defines how I am seen - or rather, not seen. My hair is turning gray, my body is distorting, my skin is sagging, and a sense of emptiness is growing.

The images toggle between the vastness and discomfort of cold open landscapes, while the warm comfortable interior of home, my nest, beckons. It's funny because despite my ambitions, I have led mostly a domestic life, raising four children over the last two decades. As they start to leave home to launch their independent lives, I am left with a void to fill. I also have turned the camera on my daughter Ruby, who in contrast, is on the cusp of young adulthood. My camera has followed her from her pre-teenage years through high school. I see so much of myself in her, but also a reflection of an alternate version of whom I might have been. For her, aging is not an apprehensive exploration of the unknown; it is the anticipation of independence and the unconstrained forging of a self in the world. As Ruby emerges from her chrysalis, into the warmth of her summer years, I am most interested in how she constructs her identity as an individual that at the same time separates herself from and reflects her relationship with me.