There is a tree in Providence, Rhode Island that I visit when I feel scattered.  I find a sense of grounding when climbing this tree’s branches to the top. It gave me a view of the city that felt like my own. It is a Beech Tree with silver bark that has initials carved all over it. I often sit and wonder about who made each mark and try to discover new ones. The carvings feel like a collection of people who passed through the city at different times, but are connected through their desire to leave a trace. I find the lovers’ initials romantic but I also worry about the health of the tree. I imagine the bark as skin that has been tattooed without consent and the tree as a being that feels pain. The tree has stood in the same place for over seventy years and has witnessed the city grow and change. It bears evidence of a collective memory on its body. 

In the midst of these feelings, I asked my friends to press their skin into the carved marks on the tree until they thought they had taken on the marks as well. I photographed the impressions on their skin in the sunlight. I liked the ritual of making contact with the tree and how for a few minutes our bodies matched parts of the tree’s. It felt like an act of healing, for us and hopefully the tree. I liked the way the marks look like scars on skin and the way our palm lines, freckles, and hair become abstracted like a landscape.