When asked, in early October 2022, to make a portfolio for a magazine that centers on food, I hesitated initially. Though historically I've been a person who is elated by seeing, smelling, tasting, making, and consuming food, this request arrived at a particular moment when suddenly I wasn't, where my relationship to food transformed into a tool solely used for survival. With the absence of my familiar connection to food, it felt pointless to make photos of it, but then I realized, perhaps it was the best time. The anti-food photography photograph — it felt like a rebellion: a boring picture of a boring piece of toast, with 1-3 ingredients on it.
It was a daily practice I was capable of holding onto. Repeating itself ad infinitum, the act of documenting my toast every morning became some strange form of intimacy. There is something about the mundane, the quotidian, that’s always seduced me — after all, that’s where everything ultimately stems from, right? By utilizing the Polaroid as my tool, the white bordered square frame lent itself to sameness, echoing the repetition of the daily toast. The toast and Polaroid function in a similar fashion — because of their immediacy, there’s a slight chance inherent to their roles, with variations in color, tone, vignetting and ingredients.
I had just gone through one of the more harrowing transitions in my life and for several months, I don’t think I went shopping for anything other than bread, butter, eggs… and the occasional green if I was feeling particularly less maudlin (as my 91-year old Bronx grandma would say) that day.
At home in solitude, I was only a witness to myself, no one around to mirror or bounce off of. I’ve forever been obsessed with identity and what makes us “us”, or if that’s even a thing to begin with. We are informed by the people around us — would the idea of a self image even exist if it weren’t for consumption, being witnessed and needing to respond to the energy of others around you? How did I get here from toast? How could I not?