“The Quiet World of Aging” is a collection of portraits and personal narratives that convey the many faces of aging: the beauty, sorrow, joy, despair, and most importantly the dignity with which these individuals carry out their remaining days. It is a celebration of their history made evident in the details and richness of their eyes, hands, posture, and lines of their skin. As the series takes viewers into direct contact with the diversity of emotions within the aging process, it confronts us with our own mortality and demands we face our own implicit bias on growing old. By photographing at a close distance, the series seeks to connect the viewer on a more personal level to the complexities of this final life phase. By pairing each portrait with personal stories, I aim to raise awareness about this vulnerable yet inspiring group of individuals by embracing their identities, honoring their courage, and giving them the reverence they deserve: quite simply, to be seen.
Enchanting and elegant, she is a very petite woman who is always impeccably dressed. Although born in the U.S, her life has been steeped in her Polish heritage and culture-living in close knit communities of Polish Americans. She and her husband ran a bustling Polish bakery for 50+ years “and I loved each and every day of it.” She had a daughter and son and is now a great, great grandmother who is called “Babcia” by all. Toward the end of our dialogue, she became very reflective when sharing that is particular month marked the one year anniversary of her son’s death at 79 years old. She closed her eyes and soulfully shared about his life, death, and the quiet grief she feels. The last photo of him with her and her daughter sits directly in front of her.
I met Carlos in a loud, crowded lunchroom at the local day shelter. He was shy and reserved, and appeared out of place. Yet, I soon discovered that this was his sanctuary from “out there” he explained, pointing to the street. He came here every day for lunch, to talk with friends, play cards, and relax. After being evicted from subsidized housing, he has been unable to find another apartment he can afford do to soaring rent prices in the city. He accepted that being homeless was his life, but was finding it increasingly difficult. His routine is the same day-in and day-out. Walking slowly with his cane back and forth between the shelters always aware of the time to “make sure I get a bed.” Today was no different, and at 3:30, we began the trip to Pine Street Inn. He stopped to rest at different intervals and never complained. It was during this walk that I truly saw the depth of his pride; his remarkable resilience in facing the harsh realities of being an older man with no where to call home
I noticed her sitting at the end of a hallway week after week, alone. Seeing her there evoked a sense of sadness in me; she somehow seemed abandoned or forgotten. When I finally approached her, I realized just how wrong I had been. Kay was not either, she loved this spot because of all the light that streamed in from the window. Sitting there had become her morning ritual; a place where she could spend cherished time by herself before her day filled up with people and activities. At 95, she was truly content with life, and where she was in it. As I listened to her story that spoke to the pleasures in her life and the peace that exists now, I was reminded of the reason I started this project: to put a face and a voice to the false misconceptions about aging that too many carry.
We sat in the tiniest space, less than 2 feet away from one another. It lent itself to a raw intimacy-one where truths were told and vulnerabilities were exposed. In that space, we were reminded that life is not linear, humans are complicated and that feelings are universal. Sharing his happiness moment - the day he first became a father; his biggest regret - “marrying the wrong person.” His proudest time - being a Korean Veteran and his most painful, the day his daughter overdosed and died. Brought up in one of the toughest neighborhoods of Boston, he quickly learned how to navigate the world but not let it harden him. It was those early years that gave him the foundation and inner strength he’s used to draw upon throughout his life; one he draws upon today. It taught him to embrace the joys and accept the struggles.
Unposed and unreserved- remarkable for sitting so close to a stranger. Sharing her story in the most candid way. It was during a pause that I saw her deep reflection to the question of what she is most proud of at 98. “My children, I was sick most of my life and they never gave up on me. They always took care of me, were always there for me, and still are. I am proud of them, very proud.”
Charming and charismatic, Jimmy personified a true Bostonian. Growing up in a large Irish Catholic family in the heart of the city, he knew everyone and everyone knew him. When WWII erupted, he was drafted into the Navy and sent to the South Pacific. He shared very few details from that time as it reminded him of “all the friends who never came back.” Returning home he followed in his family’s footsteps and joined a local union. He became a Master plumber and a very important voice for the men in his Local 12. His passion for advocacy was driven by his time in the service; a time when nothing he said or did could change the outcome. At 94, his enthusiasm, honesty, and humor toward growing older was refreshing. Smiling, he explained, “I am probably not going to make it to 95, so I am going to make 94 the best year.”
I met Anna shortly after Covid-19 began relentlessly taking the lives of nursing home residents across the U.S. She was living in a nursing home in Boston, as the virus crept closer to home, she felt compelled to share her story with me “before it is too late.” Growing up in Nazi Germany, Anna’s experience as a young girl were horrifying. She shared a raw, intimate account of the day her parents were taken from her, and when her brother was captured as a prisoner of war. She never saw any of them again, but their memories have been etched in her mind and heart ever since. Anna did not let her circumstances turn her into a victim. She married, immigrated to the U.S., started a family, and became a trauma specialist. Her work allowed her to channel the pain of her childhood into something positive and she became a powerful voice for many who felt they had none. But as she aged, she found it increasingly difficult to reconcile those losses as more ensued. When her husband and one of children had died, Anna was reminded of the raw, emotional pain that comes with loss. She knew she could not allow the grief to consume her and went to work writing her memoir. As she shared excerpts from it, I looked up to see this moment. When our gaze met again, she quietly said, “My only hope is that I can finish it. That this virus doesn’t take me before I am done.”
A very proud and humble woman who defied the rules set up by a white society and broke the glass ceiling as a woman and as a black woman who climbed the ladder by hard work and not allowing herself to be invisible. She grew up in Harlem, NY and raised by a single mother who told her she could be anything she wanted to be. Her mother was a maid in a time when racism was rampant even within the neighborhood they lived in. Their sanctuary became their church and she ensured that each of her daughters actively listened to the messages being given and not to be held back by skin color as she had been. Eileen never lost sight of her faith amidst many trials throughout her life. She was married briefly but the relationship became abusive and she left him and never remarried nor had children. She was determined to make something of herself and with each step she did. She became an executive and became very revered by her peers and loved her work. It was a government job and it allowed her to move to another side of the city, but she never forgot her roots. As she spoke of those roots, it became clear of the enduring respect she had for her mother and her never ending support she was given. Today, she lives by faith and strength, mentoring the younger generation at the church who embraced her when she moved communities. She speaks of the love from them and the love she hopes to instill in them and has never wavered. Although her age has limited some of her activities within the church, she has found a way through knitting to keep her active and provide warmth and comfort to those who have little, just as she once had.
He captured my attention with the twinkle in his eyes, his merry whistling, and cheerful way he went about his daily routine. He is always superbly dressed and wears his favorite hat. When I finally sat down to talk with him, I discovered he did not speak English. He had come from Puerto Rico 2 years ago after his wife died at the request of his daughter who wanted him closer. He lived with her briefly, but the decision was made to have him be in a long term care facility nearby not only to receive care but for his well being as he was isolated at home due to the family’s work schedule. He has made many transitions over the past 2 years, through loss and moving but has accepted them with ease and grace. He laughed when we discussed his age, as he does not see himself as an 88-year-old man; nor does he feel it, ending our conversation with “Me sent Jove de Corazon” (“I feel young at heart.”)
I met Carmela at Rosie’s Place, the 1st women’s shelter in the U.S., a true sanctuary for poor and homeless women in Boston. She was bright, animated, and full of light and laugher. Her story however did not mimic this positivity; rather it was filled with darkness and near tragedies. Born and raised to a very poor family, she started working as a housekeeper in her teens. At 25, she became pregnant and early in the pregnancy, she became very ill and slid into a coma. She was flown to the U.S. for treatment and gave birth to a son, 4 months later they both returned to Haiti. She began work as a housekeeper for wealthy families and after years of harassment in all forms, she fought back and became critically ill. It is her belief that they performed voodoo on her. Flown again to the U.S. she was given her last rites but “Carmela’s still here. God Bless America” she said tapping her heart. Her gratitude filled the room as she sang “Jesus Loves Me.” She never returned to Haiti, but given her immigration status and health issues, she was unable to work and eventually became homeless. Today, she lives in a rooming house and sleeps on an old mattress on the floor. She frequently feels discouraged as she is often cold and her feet swell, becoming very painful. She goes to Rosie’s Place daily to escape her conditions; she has all of her meals there, does her wash, and simply rests. Very few know of her struggles as she is determined to not let them define her. She feels Jesus saved her twice and that it is her mission to spread love and joy. And so she does - through her songs and infectious smile.
Within this project, there are many moments that emerge and give credence to the privilege of being an observer in a world that is unknown and foreign for many. Going to places many do not want to venture for it evokes fear, means facing ourselves and our emotions about the very process of our own aging or those we love. This moment, this image spoke to me, I felt its story should be left to the viewer, just as it was left for me to contemplate later.
Her story is mixed with joy and hardships, just as our own. What sets her apart is her soulful approach to life. Her home abuts a busy story in Harvard Square. It has no roof or walls to speak of and her floor is the concrete sidewalk and everything she needs is in various sized bags and boxes. She does not beg for money, drugs, or pity. This has been her home for 20 years. It is her choice for surrounding her is her community, her friends and she is part of it all. They care for her and she cares for them. She challenges the way many think of Homelessness for she is not without a home, it merely does not fit with what societal norms define. She maintains an overwhelming feeling of hope and optimism toward the world despite the dichotomy of the area she lives in, for it glares with hypocrisy in many ways with the haves and have nots. But this has not jaded nor tainted her thinking. She only sees a community filled with diversity not disparities. She has not been hardened by those who walk by and look down at her or by the elements of New England weather. She is looked in on by those in the community and knows this type of friendship is rare. She ended the conversation with this, “the greatest thing you will ever learn is to just love and be loved in return, it’s truly all that matters.”
At 79, I was struck by her childlike innocence and vulnerability. Being away from her home and her dog due to illness had been difficult which is why she felt most at ease holding the stuffed dog with an uncanny resemblance to her own. When shown this photograph and heard the initial remarks, she laughed and said “I am definitely far from being innocent, and if you like the picture, so do I because it really is me right now.” She had no idea when or if she could go home from the Rehab facility as she has faced many unexpected obstacles but she remains motivated and her son continues to cheer her on. It has been an “uphill battle” but one she intends on winning. As I watched her tiny frame zipping along with her walker, a bright smile on her face, I had to believe that she is right, she will win this battle.
His smile was captivating and contagious. Born in Albania, Sam came to Boston as a teenager. Shortly after finishing high school, he was sent back to Europe to fight in WWII. When he returned, he married, started a family and discovered his passion in cars and became a mechanic. He had witnessed unimaginable tragedy in his life, both as a young boy in Albania, and later as a foot soldier in the war. He credits his optimistic spirt to those experiences. The way he looks at it “once you have seen how the rest of the world lives, you realize just how great we have it. I never took anything for granted after those earlier years because I see that we have opportunities many will never have.” As he happily talked over the course of a few hours, I noticed a group had gathered to listen. I pointed this out to Sam and he winked and said to me, “you see gratitude is a magnet for miracles, no matter our age, we all need hope.”
I learned I was to become a grandmother at the same time I was trying to become a mother. It was a time of sweeping, challenging, and complex emotions. In between my first granddaughter and the second, I was diagnosed with gynecological cancer and my child-bearing years ended. I came to realize that the universe’s trajectory for me had fully changed and when my second granddaughter arrived, I fully embraced my role as “Nana.” During this time, I was flooded with memories and visions of my own grandmother and the cherished memories of our relationship. It had me pause as to what kind of role I was to play as I knew it would be inherently different from that of my own grandmother simply because of age and distance, except like her, summer became our anchor. We created our own world outside of the world. Late nights and lingering mornings; a time dedicated to just “us.” The time together grew beyond summer and the years passed.l Throughout, I was documenting our sacred and intimate time, observing and participating in their journey of self-discovery, forming their own identities, their. relationship to each other, and to those closely orbiting their lives. As time went on, I found that the images of the girls mirrored parts of my grandmother and what was cherished and kept for me. A piece of baby hair, a scrap of fabric from quilt she made, a bronze shoe of my foot, and my darling rag doll. The beauty of it was that the process between her items and my photographs was that it was unconscious and intuitive, something I only discovered after I had printed the images and began assembling them. I began to see how connected and intrinsically woven together my grandmother and I actually were simply by what we saw as important.
Being on the front lines when COVID-19 infiltrated nursing homes and elderly complexes affected me profoundly. Watching the lives of our most vulnerable population take a drastic turn compelled me to share the truths I saw and experienced since the onset of the pandemic. "Inside the Walls" portrays the lives of the elderly who were suddenly facing a new reality in quarantine, as well as an uncertain fate.
As many became ill and perished, each death hit like the loss of family. As the news came in daily, I would think to myself that there are names, faces, and histories to those numbers, there are families grieving and stories that will never be told. I knew that the individuals living inside those walls were more than a statistic, more than a compounding number and I aspired to humanize them. It became paramount to honor and embrace their identities, as their lives have immense value in understanding and shaping who we are today. An more importantly, I sought to become a voice for those who felt they had none, and to make those who felt invisible, visible.
Photographer's Statement: This project was set in various long term care facilities in Massachusetts. We chose to have the names and locations remain private, as the project is not about a specific place, rather the individuals living within them. It has been guided by privacy practices and taught me to be very mindful of each image taken. I found it set an unexpected tone to the projects, one that became more about space, body language, details, and emotions. I began shifting away from the intellect to the visceral and sought to make images that would create a pause, one that would draw the viewer inward for a moment of introspection.
As nursing homes and assisted living facilities began restricting visitors, a profound sense of loneliness set in as residents, many of whom were already isolated from their loved ones, became more isolated.
March, 2020
As testing in nursing homes began as clusters of the virus were identified, many residents waited alone in an already heightened state of anxiety, for their results.
March, 2020
With the quarantine restricting family, residents like John, eagerly awaited cards in the mail, reading and rereading them, as they became cherished reminders of love and family.
Late March, 2020
She sat staring out the door at the end of a long hallway. Looking out for hours at a time. The stop sign truly became a metaphor for how the pandemic was directly impacting all of their lives.
April, 2020
With the restriction of visitors, staff members became the closest thing to each resident. Spending time with them - trying to soothe each through acts of love, like singing ballads.
Early April, 2020
He was desperate to leave the confines of his room, so the staff allowed him to spend time in small dining space not being used. This image stopped me immediately, seeing the impact of how real the struggle was.
April, 2020
I saw this image in every room, on every floor, in every building. Individuals struggled as their worlds were shutting down around them. Many feeling helpless, alone, scared, and confused.
Early April, 2020
By April, facilities were overwhelmed by the number of active cases of the virus. The staff had to prioritize the cases as many individuals were clinging to life and others were simply holding on, hoping they were not the next to die.
Late April, 2020
As residents grew sicker and more frail, staff did their best to notify families daily of their loved one’s status. When John knew his father was actively dying and he was not allowed to visit, we coordinated a FaceTime visit with him. Although the image of his father in such a frail state haunted him, he requested a photo to be captured during this time. He shared, “this picture is somehow comforting as my father feels ethereal, like he is making the transition to God.”
May, 2020
On April 22nd, Corona virus deaths in the U.S. long term care facilities exceeded 10,000. The Northeast reported the highest number of deaths that spring. Many residents dying alone as family was restricted from visiting.
Early May, 2020
As each day passed, a bed became empty. Another death occurred.
May, 2020
I found this still life so moving, depicting both the spiritual and the reality that the virus there.
Early June, 2020
As the lockdown measures continued and new clusters of the virus kept emerging,, the feelings of loneliness, abandonment, and despair among the residents had significantly increased. The ongoing toll on their physical, emotional, and neurological health became so profound that it caused many to simply lose their will to live.
June, 2020
As the number of deaths surged, many individuals lost their long time roommates. The belongings being left in the room just as they were, sometimes for weeks and months. The grief and loss was compounded by the emptiness and stark reminder of the life lost.
July, 2020
The blue plastic gowns became sacred garments, seen in each room and hung in all different ways. They took on a hauntingly animated aura of the individual who had just worn it.
July, 2020
For months, we rallied to the battlefields, waging two battles - the one inside the walls and the one inside of ourselves. We did so even when we had no weapons to brandish. We took care of the infected and the critically ill when no one else would. We reused N956 masks, carefully placing them in labeled paper bags. We were painfully aware of our own vulnerabilities and although camaraderie was strong, a team effort, we each were tired. We were tired for we had witnessed too much death, too much pain, too much heartache. We fought gallantly against an invisible force with only brief reprieve. We fought gallantly for a population that already felt invisible because they were, they are. We were keenly aware that the fight would not be over for an undetermined time and we prayed each day that it would simply be better than the day before.
Self-portrait, August 2020
Moments after receiving her first dose of the vaccine, she lowered her head, raised her palms, and began to pray. A poignant moment of hope amid the uncertainty.
Late October, 2020
Birthdays became more special as time went on given the amount of deaths. A small token of love although celebrating alone.
November, 2020
A cold rainy day did not stop a daughter from seeing her mother. It became a routine journey to which both needed and loved. In many facilities, visitation was still limited so families found these wonderful alternatives.
November, 2020
Touch is one of the most important of our senses as it bonds and connects us in profound ways. Throughout this past year it became elusive and inherently absent. Almost a year into the pandemic, facilities allowed “compassionate care” visits - to allow families to be with their loved ones at the end of life- to simply be present, once again.
February, 2021
As “compassionate care” visits continued, I began photographing families, especially spouses, join their loved one in the final days of their lives.
February, 2021
