When I first moved into our home in Ellershouse in 2009 I made the terrible mistake of storing all of my most important papers, original artworks and reproductions, in the basement.
Being a city girl, that was where things were stored. I never stopped to consider the stone foundation and dirt floor, I was far too busy finding space for the exorbitant amount of belongings I’d brought with me to my new life in the country.
I can’t remember how long it was before the first flood. It was during a heavy rainfall when I first heard the sound of rushing water below us in the basement. I soon understood that this would be a common occurrence and I’d literally put my most precious things in the absolute worst spot in the entire house. Stacked cardboard filled with paper and prints now drenched.
What a strike to my very core, years of work from my late teens and early twenties, melting away in the dark.
At the time I couldn’t bring myself to face the destruction and left everything down there to dry. I comforted myself with the idea that one day I’d photograph what I could as some form of salvation.
These boxes contained most of my cut-up portraits, a series I began in the last few years of art school.
While I was working at a print shop in Halifax the photocopiers became my main tool for expression. I made posters on brightly coloured paper, essentially memes, and placed them on telephone poles throughout the city. Every portrait had a quote attached that I added with my Nana’s turquoise typewriter, which always stutteres on the j.
Last month after reconnecting with a stranger I’d once made a portrait of to commemorate the sale of my very first piece of felted jewellery two decades ago, I was once again reminded of that unfinished task in the basement. After 16 years I was motivated to finally process the crumbling mound in that damp dark corner.
After a few years without having my eyes on the stack (thankfully Bryan had raised them onto a palette at some point) I found that the box labelled “Important Papers” had a rather large mycelium wrapped around the left hand side.
The bottom of the box next to it had practically dissolved back into soil, with the colourful paper now faded and resembling confetti. My art was becoming one with the earth again.
I transferred the salvageable contents of one box into a fresh one and took it out to the lawn. As I went through it, piece by piece, I took a trip back in time. Within this box I found the origin of my cut-ups, including a few silly sketches revealing secret thoughts I’d never say out loud. Decomposing memories of past love affairs and flashes of naive youth.
Among the reproductions stored in the basement were a handful of photographs and a sleeve of negatives. The mycelium, water, frost and darkness all had their hand in reshaping the emulsion once bearing images of a 21 year old me.
Instantly I was transported back to first year photography when Dave taught us about reticulation, describing negatives and emulsion aging and cracking into abstraction. I remembered wishing to someday encourage reticulation and how satisfying it would be to see the end results after such a long wait.
Back when I abandoned that soggy box in the basement part of my brain went, well at least in the time it takes for me to be able to process this loss, perhaps fate can step in and play its hand.
I was not disappointed, in fact 18 year old Tacha is rather satisfied with this collaboration.
