Memento
Casey Joiner’s Housekeeping is gorgeous and all I can do is hold it with heavy, wet eyes.
It’s wild that our paths crossed at all.
I met Casey in Chicago, high up in a glass room on South Wabash. Filter Photo was hosting its annual festival and I was attending a book-publishing workshop led by Magnum’s Carolyn Drake.
Out of all the photographers, I found myself instinctively drawn to Casey. Her composure was self-assured. Cool. Centered. She was up from New Orleans with her partner, a detail I found incredibly romantic—an extended stay in the city as your love supports you through workshops and portfolio reviews! What a dream.
We began to share about ourselves and she revealed her father recently died. I knew loss, but not parental. As someone close to my parents, my mind reeled. I thought, ‘But you’re here, functioning. Taking action. How?’ I couldn’t reconcile the two images: the woman living her life, and the woman living it without someone that’s always been in it. I asked a question and immediately felt stupid. “Are you okay?”
Her answer came quick and fierce; a declaration. “No, of course not.” Her voice carried an emotional tint with a sharp note. In retrospect, I perceive this inflection as the visiting grief one must invite in, and it tips out now and then on its own. I admired her for it. In a society that prefers distraction and joy, Casey was expressing her true experience and building a body of work around it.
My mother died less than a year later. Through those first few months, Casey’s courage stayed on my mind. While I continued to function—showing up for shoots, producing work, submitting my art, accepting social calls—I was surprised by my ability to continue on. You do go on. It’s the most potent and pure act of human resiliency I’ve ever encountered. It’s disorienting and alchemic. These days when asked the colloquial pleasantry, “How are you?” I’m answering inside, “Not okay.”
