A few days ago someone asked me why I post self-portraits and write about death and such. I’m pretty sure they were being sarcastic by asking, so I didn’t answer honestly, but it was a fair question that got me to think about the evolution of this project.

Since I am married to someone substantially younger than me, life is a bit out of phase with my age and I often forget that fact because I just don’t feel like I’m nearly fifty. These self-portraits serve as a reminder. From the outside they initialize the self-examination I’ve developed over the last few years, and quite honestly, without them I would not really know how old I am.

On the other hand, the writing is a byproduct of awareness. There are days when the hair line, eye circles, and growing wrinkles I see in these images converge in a debilitating, sorrowful realization that I am getting old; I write to embrace that fear so that it will pass with appropriate acknowledgment, and I share it as a form of therapy.

But there is nothing unique about me. Ultimately, the issues I contemplate here are the same everyone faces — especially the people who ask questions, but don’t really want answers.