Our work speaks for itself.

Two people photograph the sky and send the pictures to each other. Neither archive was made to be art. They are the ordinary evidence of two people noticing the same thing at different hours, in different places, and thinking of one another.

One of the two is my father.

Once a year I make a single composite image from every sky we have shared. The photographs accumulate; the composites do not get clearer. Each year holds more of them, layered until the individual skies are no longer separable and the image has moved further from anything either of us actually stood beneath. The record grows larger and less literal at the same time.

That drift is the work rather than a side effect of it. This is what remembering does, and what losing memory does: it abstracts, it composites, it keeps the feeling and loses the particulars. Making a new image every year means the series can only be read as duration — a single picture is a year, and the difference between two of them is the year that passed between. What is documented here is not weather and not the sky. It is the shared act of looking up, the continual abstraction of the reality and the hope we live within, and the fact that the accumulating is also the dissolving.