Tarkus and Alejandra

TARKUS, Santa Barbara, California, 1976
Black and white photograph created with 120 film, 20” x 20”, Artist’s Collection

Although the images in this exhibition are not in chronological order, I begin with the image of a child wearing my mask in 1976 when I was 31 years old. I met Tarkus and his mother by chance near their home in Santa Barbara. Tarkus struck me as a little boy dressed in a grown man’s clothing from another generation. After receiving permission to do the shoot, I noticed how large the mask appeared resting on Tarkus’ shoulders. It felt like his enormous head could explode, which was why he held it so firmly in his tiny hands. And now, looking at the image, I feel my head is exploding with the childlike excitement of this project. And I fear that if my head explodes, I will lose my focus. Or maybe if my head becomes too large, I will lose its connection to my heart.

ALEJANDRA, New York City, 2024
Digital color print, 20” x 20”,
Artist’s Collection

Alejandra is my physical therapist and Pilates instructor. I’ve known her for 10 years. As I write this, she’s in her third trimester of pregnancy. When I told her about my project, she became intrigued, so I asked if she would model. I paired her with Tarkus, since she was about to birth a new life. I experience the excitement of birthing with each new image, and each pairing of an old and a new image. Alejandra is striking in the white mask against her body and the tapestry in her studio. In her presence, I feel my own weight and expectation. And I see that we are all held together by an imaginary umbilical chord—Tarkus, Alejandra, Robert, and the new baby.