Fog, Memory, and the Spaces We Leave Behind

Photography series created in Hudson, Massachusetts

Some mornings feel like they aren’t meant to be touched, mornings where the fog hangs low, softens every edge, and makes the world feel half-alive, half-memory. That was Hudson, Massachusetts, the morning I made this series. A place where so many parts of my family story live, suspended between what once was and what remains.

I didn’t plan to make these photographs. I just woke early, walked outside, and found myself surrounded by a quiet so thick it asked to be documented. Fog has a way of turning any location into a threshold, but in Hudson, it felt like it was wrapping around the past, protecting it, blurring it, revealing it.

My Grandmother’s Empty House

The first image is of my grandmother’s house, once full of warmth, noise, and life, now standing empty. She no longer lives there. The rooms are quiet. The windows look out at a yard that was once familiar and now feels like a held breath.

That morning, fog drifted around the house like an embrace. It wasn’t eerie; it was tender.
Like the house exhaled, and the fog answered.

I found myself photographing it as if I were documenting a memory returning to itself, a final portrait of a place that shaped generations of my family before time asked us to move on.

The Lake: Wooden Bridges, Lonely Signs, and Morning Silence

Further down the road sits the lake I grew up visiting. On this fog-heavy morning, the wooden bridge looked more like a path into nowhere, suspended above still water. A single sign stood in the center of the lake, almost swallowed by the haze. The fog didn’t hide it; it softened it, turning a simple object into something symbolic. A marker. A reminder.

The lake felt like a liminal space that day, somewhere between the real world and the places we meet our memories.

The Spider Web on the Street Sign

One of my favorite images in this series is of a spider web stretched across a street sign, shimmering with dew. It felt like an unexpected altar, something small but sacred.

There’s something poetic about the way spiders rebuild what’s destroyed, day after day. A fragile structure holding its ground in a place meant for direction. A quiet symbol of persistence and reclaiming space.

My Uncle’s Carpentry Station

In an old barn built in the 1800s sits my uncle’s workbench, now untouched, waiting, lingering. The barn itself feels like it breathes history, its wooden beams creaking with the weight of a century.

I photographed the work station as I found it: tools left exactly where his hands placed them. Dust settling over the life he built inside those walls. It wasn’t staged; it was a moment preserved. A reminder that people leave traces everywhere they work, everywhere they love.

My Brother Eric’s Garage

The final photos in the series were taken in my brother Eric’s garage, after he passed away. It was the last time his space existed exactly as he left it, before family members came in, before we cleaned, before the world resumed.

Photographing his garage was quiet but heavy. A space that was always loud and filled with life, now just still. It was a room paused in time. A room full of unfinished projects, fingerprints, and echoes.

This photograph is both a document and a goodbye. A way of holding onto what remained before it changed forever.

A Series About Presence, Absence, and the Spaces Between

Together, these images form a portrait of Hudson not as a town, but as a memoryscape. Fog became the connecting thread, not just a weather pattern, but a metaphor:

Fog obscures. Fog protects. Fog reveals.

This series is about the places people leave behind, the spaces that hold their stories, and the way memory settles over everything like morning mist. These photographs are a map of what once was, and a reminder that even in silence, even in stillness, something remains.