Planted at different times, yet we grow together. Through plants and trees and flowers, we communicate. We sway, we bend, we bond.

This is a series of photos of my sister and me, and nature itself.  My three brothers weren't really a part of my life as a child, so my sister was the closest and dearest person to me. This is to show my appreciation to my sister, and for people to see how nature and sisterhood make such an impact on me.  

I feel like we are trees and flowers, connected by the roots and leaves and petals and rings. Swaying in all directions from the wind like how we sway to music. Binding closer together like roots in the soil that have been growing for years. Sprouting outward and occasionally losing our grip on each other and falling like the loose branches on a great oak tree. We are a part of this great oath tree. Bound together for life, not even death can do us part. Sworn into sisterhood and introduced to unity at birth. You are my great hope tree. It's such a blessing growing with you. 


i took a disposable camera around with me
for about a week
there's not a fancy feature in sight
no autofocus or preview
just wind the film...
point and shoot!

the brother i never wanted

i never asked to be bonded by love
but here we are smoking a blunt
the ups and downs have been more
than we've bargained for
more than once...
it incited a war
we love
we have
one man bonds us by fate


he is hard working
a hustler
his patience is large
he knows
is in charge
and collected
black man
the air she breathes
we hate to see your blood on these streets



The difference between writing and photography is that one has a defined shape and a vague story, while the other has a defined story but a vague shape. Lately I have been feeling both vague and undefined, but people want me to speak. In the past I had more words but wasn't expected to voice them. This project is meant to capture my confusion about this situation.




My name is Christopher Sykes and I want to do a comparison between what we remember and what is currently there. I photographed a lot of abandoned houses and old neighborhoods that I was around a lot as a kid. I wrote the directions to make it seem like I was reminiscing but also telling the reader how to get to a destination that I held dear as a child.








The playground I used to go to?

Yeah you walk out this house and turn to the left so you're facing the big white house owned by Mr. Jameson. He always had his blue nose pit bull on the front porch that had burgundy steps and a black landing. He would always trim the bushes and weeds on the left side of his yard from the neighbors.

Keep heading down that street until you encounter a field to your right. The field that kids would run around on until the grass would disappear. Walk through the field until you come across two abandoned houses.

One house, 2800 has a beautiful shade of green with a white flower wreath towards the top. The other, a white door, with someone always on the porch, seemed to be a different person every time.

Make a right and you should see a row of houses and a busy street. A street full of people usually, there is something happening. It is rare to see that street quiet, even if no one is outside there would be music coming from the house to the right of the one with red door. To the left of that house would be and old lady selling frozen cups and snacks like tasty cakes and chips.

Make a right at the end of that street and into the alley, the playground should be there along with the swings that were squeaky after it rains. The wood chips completely covering the ground scattered and unorganized like but seemed to be kept in order due to the weeds growing everywhere but the wood chips themselves. I have so many memories here, especially on the toy horse where I would manage to fall and get hurt every time I got on it. That is my favorite playground, I hope you find it okay.



My work consists of problems black women face as they grow in this society. They are discriminated against for expressing themselves or just being a darker skin even by men of their color and it makes them feel ashamed of who they are. I was inspired to do these pieces because of problems I faced as a kid. This series is for my younger self and other young black women not to be ashamed and express who you are.










At 5 I asked my mom if I could be white for my birthday. She said no and asked why. I said because they are better than us.

At 7 I secretly prayed to god every night to make my lips thinner, hair straighter, and skin lighter. I always woke up to be disappointed. I thought god wanted me to suffer but I stayed loyal. Maybe it takes time.

At 8 I saw Michael Jackson as a miracle. A black man turning white overnight was only god's work. Turns out he just bleached his skin and god didn't do it.

I stopped praying to god after 8.

It was only a month of sneaking bleach into my bathwater before I was caught and grounded. I was monitored after that.

At 11 I started not going outside as much out of fear of getting darker. I started to straighten my hair and sucking in my lips to make them look smaller. For a visual look at my sixth-grade yearbook photo.

I stopped straightening my hair at 15. My hair wasn't growing and it was damaged very badly. The goggles of white skin started to slide off as I realized this wasn't healthy. It was literally killing my happiness.

For a year I gave my color time to breathe. I went outside into the sun, the hair that was left went natural, and my lips were released. Now at 17, I'm happy with my life my culture expressing is now the air I breathe.



This body of work embodies death through its language and structure.  The work aims to highlight dissent in memories during the process of grieving.  I examine the notion of home through familiar "things," such as my grandma's jewelry and songs, to show the end and beginning of a tradition.   


A Song

Crying, aint got no soul
I fell down in a pit
Hands cringe at blue
Even these legs shiver
For a golden shoe
Crying, aint got no soul
Bet life for a coin
A Spook cracks
Its bloody smell
Scared me, dead


A stain glass mimics a picture of you

Bill Withers sing, Grandma hands clap your hands on
Sunday Morning, Grandma hands...
hurt, the aching, the song, your jewelry

you came in my room flickering tired, whispering a dream
I don't have a grandma no more


Taylor, I had a dream about ______eating a
mouse, ______ playing with a horse’s tail
no one was paying attention to ______
cause they were all yelling at_______


Grandma said
Grandma can I hug you
Grandma I been thinking about souls
where we go when we are dead
I can feel you. It was you I felt, dead.                           

Me sung a song nana





Tomorrow ain’t no sadness
Tomorrow ain’t no sadness
Tomorrow ain’t no sadness





If I can master a broken hymn
maybe my eyes won’t bleed every time
I look at Maude’s picture
She said




Wax tooth
Somber ear
a simple soul
Cracks red
Grief flickers
a vain button

The devil
Be-es back
Using a canon
For wings

It's a joke
To be home
Boiling water