What if we could create portraits that reject the mutability of time?

What if we could be young and old and middle-aged and newborn, joyous, nearly broken, everything all at once? What if we took the idea of a portrait — an act of memory-making – and exploded it so that it was no longer flat, precise to a moment in time and a representation of a specific moment? What if a portrait could be a set of stories, memories and even myths?  

What if babies descend from the sky — because we asked our rabbi or our priest or our friends in high places — and move through memories, shown as clouded photographs? What if at the end of our lives we ascend through the same and understand that those we love and those upon whose shoulders we stand are still out there in the form of memory and myth? What if nothing is ever truly lost to us? Up there, in the tropopause — the calm belt of air where our atmosphere meets the stratosphere and the safe space for pilots — things are more complete.