Natura Morta

 

Many months ago, I saw an ad for a collection of Soviet medicine bottles. Some were minuscule, maybe just a few drops would fit in them, more dollhouse toy than a cure for some ancient ill. I had to buy them, less than $20 for the entire box (including delivery), wrapped in old newspaper, some broken with jagged, ugly mouths where corks had lived.  I had this idea that I would shoot a series of still lives with them, after I wade through a dizzying pile of commitments. The irony of medicine bottle photographs taken during an ongoing lockdown felt so right. 

The shoe box was not tucked away on a shelf. No, I keep it close to my desk. A gentle reminder of what I am working towards. A reward for finishing what needs finishing. 

Still life. It sounds like a pun, as in still there is life, or this is still alive. A defiant reminder that objects have stories, that being of flesh and blood does not necessarily mean you are alive. These bottles are still living long after their purpose played out. In Latin, the term is Natura Morta - which translates in a number of ways. Nature already created, cut by a thread. Or more simply, dead nature. 

Is a photograph of dead nature an allegory for this past year? I keep wanting to think yes, as the weeks and months pass, as I wrestle the final stages of these projects that have been so patient, as calm and understanding as those bottles in the shoebox wrapped in old newspaper with their new story to tell.