Reclaimed
A Study in Stillness and Surrender
Reclaimed is a personal and ongoing exploration of the spaces and things we leave behind—and what they become in our absence. This project seeks out the quiet tension between what was once purposeful and what now persists in stillness, shaped not by human hands but by time, weather, and the slow, patient work of nature. The series began with simple curiosity and evolved into a meditation on impermanence. Along roads less traveled and in forgotten corners of towns, I’ve found remnants of lives and stories etched into the landscape: a diner long closed but still advertising welcome, a rusted bus fenced off in a field, a streetlight swallowed by rising floodwaters. These are not just abandoned objects or places—they are silent testaments to resilience, memory, and transformation.
Adding to this visual narrative, the ruins of Old Sheldon Church offer a more reverent expression of those themes. Here, in the shadow of towering brick columns and moss-draped oaks, I felt a sacred kind of stillness. The church, once burned and rebuilt, now stands open to the sky, its empty arches framing light and foliage in a soft dance of decay and renewal. It reminds me that even our most enduring structures—those built for worship, gathering, and permanence—are subject to nature’s quiet reclaiming. Each photograph in this series—whether a tree rooted in floodwaters, a roadside relic, or the remains of a sacred space—asks the same fundamental question: What becomes of the things we leave behind? In capturing them, I’m not just documenting ruin. I’m witnessing transition. I’m honoring the layers of history, memory, and change embedded in these places.
The images in Reclaimed are presented in black and white or subdued color, echoing the emotional tone of solitude and reverence I feel in these spaces. They are intentionally sparse, free of people, allowing the viewer space to enter, reflect, and remember. My goal is not to mourn what’s been lost—but to elevate what still stands. To find beauty in the broken. To listen closely to what remains. Ultimately, Reclaimed is about time—its passage, its effects, and its quiet grace. It’s about learning to see the dignity in decay, the poetry in ruins, and the powerful silence of a world slowly, steadily, taking itself back.
"Forgotten Journey"
I was winding through the backroads of Utah, somewhere between Monument Valley and Moab, when this old bus caught my eye—someone had painted it silver years ago—maybe to reflect the sun, maybe just to give it a second life. Now weathered and still, it looked like the shell of a story long forgotten. It sat in a field behind a tangle of fence posts and wild sage, quietly fading into the landscape. I made the first safe turn I could and doubled back, drawn in by the stillness of it all. I spent time with this image, considering the road it had traveled and how it ended up here.
"Last Stop"
Somewhere out in the Utah desert, I came across this abandoned gas station with its sun-bleached sign still calling out, OPEN — COME ON IN. The irony stopped me in my tracks. There's no fuel here, no snacks, no one behind the counter—just sagebrush reclaiming the gravel lot and silence where the hum of engines once echoed.
"Once Legendary"
Say the name Ma’s Coffee Pot to someone who spent years behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler, and chances are, you’ll get a story—maybe about the best slice of pie they ever had, a hot cup of coffee on a cold night, or just a kind word during a long haul. For decades, this little stop in South Haven was a beacon for truckers and locals alike. Today, the windows are dark, and the weeds are taking over the lot, but the sign still stands, like an echo from the road.
"Sheldon Ruins 2"
"Sheldon Ruins 3"
I made these images at the ruins of Old Sheldon Church, a hauntingly beautiful site steeped in history and silence. Originally built between 1745 and 1753 in the Greek Revival style, the church was twice reduced to ruins—first by the British during the Revolutionary War in 1779, and again by Sherman’s troops in 1865.
When my wife and I visited in 2016, we had the place to ourselves. The stillness was profound, broken only by the rustle of Spanish moss and the occasional birdcall. As the light filtered through the empty arches, it felt as though the structure itself was holding its breath—whispers of loss, resilience, and sacred memory lingering in the air. I tried to honor that feeling with this photograph, capturing the quiet dignity of a place shaped by both destruction and devotion.
"Flood Light"
I came across this scene after a heavy flood—an ordinary streetlight now stranded in the middle of rising water. The absurdity of it struck me at first, but then came the stillness. The pole stood like a relic, half-forgotten, its reflection trembling across the surface. It felt like a monument to human presence slowly being erased. For me, this image is about surrender—the subtle, patient way the land remembers itself, long after we’ve left our mark.
"Sole Survivor"
This tree, standing alone in the flooded shallows, stopped me in my tracks. Everything around it was still—the water, the air, the light. It felt like the world had paused just long enough for this moment to exist. There was something quiet and stubborn about it, holding its place without fanfare. I didn’t need to say much—just set up, breathe, and try to get it right.