Despite our best efforts to create a legacy, a monument, something that keeps our name relevant long after we’re gone, all relics turn to dust.
Our corporeal forms wither, but a person’s memory lingers. These phantoms haunt us. Some bedevil many; others just inhabit a small few that recount their brief, earthly story.
Ethan Price records the specters of synaptic snapshots that come to us in sleep. In quiet, private moments, or crowded rooms. Those moments of wistful, existential nostalgia that belie the futile howl against our mortal predicament.