One day after high school, I was crossing Main Street in Willimantic, CT, and saw a broken rosary lying in-between the lines in cross-walk. I picked it up and held it for awhile. Up until then I had never seen one in person, but I knew, at least to someone, it was sacred. And to see it cracked and torn, beads lost to the curbs and sewers, something stirred in me.
The name stuck with me for awhile, years in which I was silent to my own life; and my life was silent to me. I watched my life walk separate from me; go in caves, dorm rooms; up West Rock clearings; down in late-night flames.
The project, for me, is a reclamation of the voice I thought I lost, and a blending of it with those who have also reclaimed their voices.