Genus/species is a body of work that explores the invisible, all-encompassing power of names, labels, and language. 

Since the advent of speech, or even before, humans have sought to witness and characterize the existence of other beings, to frame our own lived experiences in the context of these ‘others’. Whether these labels take the form of scrawled paintings in the Lascaux caves, or carefully curated syllables plucked from baby books, we have been naming things in one way or another for all of human history.

Names have power. In some cultures, people carry their lineage—the genealogy of blood, the legacy of sweat and labour—in their names. In the Biblical story of Genesis, God gave Man the right to name all animals, and in doing so conferred upon him a high and lonely dominion over all that he named. In folklore and mythology, there is power in knowing the real name of things, an unshakeable magic that affords the knower control over the named thing. 

All these things are, in a way, true. To name something is to define it, to acknowledge its existence as unique and separate from any other thing. Language informs people whether they are safe and belong. 

Or not. 

Cruel words leave hurts in hidden places, removed from easy healing. There is no simple stitch or splint for the pain of being wounded in this way. Words that have been weaponized linger throughout history—censored on radio and network television, but nevertheless pervasive. These condemning words stigmatize those who are different, marginalize those who need uplifting, dehumanize populations whose needs are inconvenient to those in power. Those groups, in turn, fight back by reclaiming these words, subverting their meanings and placing them firmly in the seat of their strength and solidarity. 

In Genus/species, in lieu of their names or other descriptors, the models are identified by the taxonomic names of the flowers they hold, harkening back to botanical illustrations and Linnaean classification. This deliberate conceit forces the viewer to abandon conventional terminology, and to decouple any easy assumptions from the earthly flesh on display. There are no quick judgements to be made; only questions that unfold in the liminal space between the seen and the unknown: Should the subjects be named or otherwise identified? Would doing so shift our perceptions? Is it our right and our role to cast their shadows into the light for our own comfort? 

A picture may be worth a thousand words—or a single name—but who is to say which words are right and true?