I live ten minutes by foot from Ethan Allen’s resting place. I locked my camera on its most ethereal setting and hoped a spirit or two would lope into frame. It’s a little surreal to know that one of my state’s best and brightest lies reduced to dust just yards from me. We all get there eventually. In death, you’re not special.
Under my steely lens, I felt more gothic than I have in months. Josh and Holly were happy to oblige my urge to capture the day. Turning my friends ashen and fierce felt wonderfully subversive: the alive playing shamelessly at death, appropriating the crumbling corpses we’ll one day become? Sign me up.