Recently a dear family member was diagnosed with a cognitive decline, early stage dementia. I grieve, but try to be curious. I watch as his brain shifts and adapts, as he struggles. His thinkings and doings are more poetic. He writes cryptic notes to self in masking tape and marks the direction of doorknobs.
The works are contained in a family photo album, much like the ones we used to pour over watching ourselves develop from infancy. The album pairs haikus with my documentation of his visual poetry. It is a document of my journey watching him transform in 17 syllables, sharpie marker, lessons and metaphors, and masking tape still holding him and family together.
