By Holly Cannell

Past, present, future — the transition of time, place and space. Baby, child, teenager, young adult, middle aged, senior, octogenarian...

Changes in ourselves, the world around us and how we perceive these changes compel me. Even as I stare, something shifts and is subtly different. I blink, time passes, the sun moves slightly, people walk past with various expressions. I perceive many things peripherally and my mood shifts. My attitude toward my subject is now altered. A hot cup of coffee on a cold morning tends to make me smile a bit more at the people I pass. Rude treatment affects my feelings for the rest of the day, at least. Memories passed long ago into storage are stirred by a single whiff of nutmeg.

Contemplating with the sincerity of a philosopher, I have not yet unraveled the mysteries of this universe. The deeper I look, the more questions I uncover. My inquiries are lost in a world that is always moving. Society shifts, tectonic plates shift, Grandma's good China shifts, falling of the table, breaking not just the cup, but affecting the entire set. And the world will not stop changing no matter how content I find myself in a given moment. I will not be permitted to rest there long.

My health is broken, but I am still me — a different me, but myself unmistakably. So the self that I am has changed. The world around me is reconstructed, my views move over the years my attitude is altered. I know who I am from day-to-day, but less so from week-to-week. And I am barely recognizable after a mere decade. What is it that I am working on that can withstand the great passage of time through which I am journeying? Time itself is my companion.

The bright colors represent a world filled with attractive distractions. Gold paint stands for attention focused on something such as leaves, branches, clouds. This can be thought of as an object of meditation as nature often is. The "gaps" are the spaces between canvasses. Near each edge the paintings change. This represents the effect of memory on what is remembered. We ourselves are the bridge. As we remind one another how things were "back in the day." The more accurate our witness to our own lives, the less difficult bridging becomes. Are we good eyewitnesses? Or have we written over things we didn't like? Or changed the narrative to cast ourselves in more noble light? One phase of life leads to another, frame after frame, scene after scene. But...who are we?

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