When I look through old photos, I reflect on my desire to honor my family’s legacy—a lineage of farmers, sawmill workers, collectors, and stewards of the land. My family has long relied on the resources of their land and their collection of discarded, yet useful, objects. Through a series of copper and steel-polymer plates, I celebrate their resourcefulness and independence while grappling with my fears about the future.

Fontaine, the name of the area where my family resides, comes from the French word for “natural springs.” Likely named for its rivers and sloughs, this region’s protected wetlands have been drastically diminished by large-scale farming. As the natural land disappeared, so did many small, privately owned farms and homes. My family remains one of the last to hold their ground, surrounded by corporate fields of rice and soybeans.

When a story ends, when does a new tree take root? As a daughter and one of the last to carry my family name, I often wonder: is it the name that defines a legacy or the people within it? Am I the end of a branch or the beginning of a root?