Katherine Hope Savelle

It feels like the world is going to Hell in a hand-basket, if you believe in that sort of thing. I began this project before a tumultuous American election, and after one long year of seeing torn-apart bodies on my cell phone, me being so far removed from the chaos that the only way to hear the bombs has been through recordings that were made miles away. It’s a miserable crossroads to be taught that genocide is the worst thing that can be done, and then see my country do it again and again. My goal has been to find a way through all these feelings, and instinctively I have looked to my community. I used this project to buy some time with my friends, family, and acquaintances. We talked about things and I recorded, and sometimes the topics were light and sometimes they were heavy. I always managed to work in the same three questions – What is the most important thing to you right now? What is a piece of advice you want to share? What brings you joy…despite it all? We shared our fears and our hopes and our wishes for how things can still change for the better, and how they do all the time. "Everything is on fire, but everyone I love is doing beautiful things and trying to make life worth living, and I know I don’t have to believe in everything, but I believe in that." Nikita Gill

It's been almost 20 years since my dad died, and I have felt many feelings about it. This project was a way to get to know that day. I searched the internet for October 1, 2005, and collected anything I could find - both domestically and internationally. It was an odd version of catharsis to make this, but it also serves as a reminder to myself and others that the world is so large, and even on the worst day of my life, it moved along in every way. It is one-of-a-kind and took me many hours of mess-ups and re-dos to get right, which gives me the sense that this final piece is truly sacred, even if only to me.

This is my attempt to continue my life as normal among all the messes. Messes in my home, in my head, in my world. As the genocide in Palestine rages on, I live my life unharmed by anyone but myself. My physical spaces become cluttered as usual, yet this time, I let the mess linger on purpose just to have something to clean up. Something to show. My journal hears my thoughts and the messes they contain. The entries are inconsistent and filled with emotion. Eat Your F*cking Ice Cream is a note to myself, to the president, and to the world. We’re all watching the destruction. We’re all eating our ice cream anyway.

From September 15 to October 30, 2023, the United Auto Workers went on strike to demand a better working contract from the companies Ford, Stellantis, and General Motors. "And it was actually because I was really tied to... I mean, I'm really tied to workers’ rights and getting the value of your labor. But one of the specific things they had asked for was the four-day workweek, the 32 hours of work with 40 hours’ worth of pay. And so, I took that – just that one request – and have been going around just asking the people around me, what do you think about that? Like, how do you think that might translate into other lines at work, if it even does?"

I met X in November 2022. At that time, he was homeless. He stood at a corner near where I live and panhandled during the day, and slept in a garage at night. He liked to collect feathers and put them along the fence, but they've all blown away. Like many, X once succumbed to suicidal ideation and made an attempt using fentanyl. It did not work, and he became addicted. During our time together he told me about how he used to be a musician, and how his parents live nearby but won't allow him home because of his drug use. Over time I saw him less and less, and one day I heard he had been arrested. I wondered if the police would care about his withdrawals. I don't trust that they did. Since his release, he has moved on to somewhere new and has not called.

My mom was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma in early 2022. I had been afraid to lose her ever since my dad died, but after the diagnosis, that fear became immanent. As we worked through all the just-in-case plans, I coped with dread by imagining my life without her; how I would feel and how I would navigate it. This project is made of photographs of her in some of our most-visited places; except she's not there anymore. The places still exist, but when she's gone, there'll be a hole in them. And maybe there always will be.