brandon rodkewitz photography

Recently my family learned that my grandmother's vision is worsening. She has cateracts for which she'll have a routine operation that may improve her vision to a degree, but also has worsening macular degeneration, an irreversible and gradual degredation of one's vision.

I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose my vision after a lifetime of visual memories. She will soon rely on these memories and her imagination to perceive the sharpness and vividness of the things she sees. I can only hope that her memory will continue to serve her more than ever as she slowly regresses into a world that has no clarity.

She can no longer see well enough to drive farther than short distances and, widowed, she can no longer pass the time by reading or doing crosswords - both of which she's enjoyed for years.

My grandmother has lived in this house for over 50 years, and every corner and crevice is occupied with some sort of picture or knick knack. She knows where every object is. She has a clear mental view to one degree or another of what everything looks like. But she can no longer see the rooms she dwells or these objects in the splendor she remembers them with. And since she is mostly unable to travel, she spends the majority of her time in this place. She does have company often though - my aunt, uncle and cousin live next door sharing the family's 9-acre plot, my parents and I are only about a 20 minute drive away, and the cat we got her is quite an entertaining character. Still, one can't escape the clear loneliness she faces from time to time, and the house is still filled with objects that belonged to my grandfather. It is an eerie thing to feel how much he is missed by all of us and how he is still so present in the vacant home. His photo is in numerous places throughout the house. His medals and purple heart in a small shadowbox on the wall. His room mostly the way he left it; his cane, walker, and wheelchair folded in the corner of his room that serve as painful reminders of the long battle he fought with Parkinson's. And the American flag folded on his pillow, presented to my grandmother by the two soldiers who presided over his veteran's funeral service.

Soon after learning of this, I photographed my grandmother's house in a fashion that I might imagine is similar to how she sees it (or soon will). The images remain informational and very telling, despite their lack of sharpness. They are shot using only soft, natural light, but their lack of focus while beautiful, is both frustrating and confining.