Liberty State Park Speaks

Where families open in laughter, and the light turns memory into images.

I am Liberty State Park.

My light changes with the seasons: June holds onto the day as if it will never end, but by late August, the sun folds earlier into the horizon, leaving me quieter, filled with a warm melancholy glow. By autumn, the light turns soft, almost secret, wrapping each portrait in a quiet glow.

That evening, I welcomed NeeNee, Samon, and their daughters Ava and Nova. They arrived as families often do, expecting a routine — perhaps even something dull. But soon they found themselves carried into play, into laughter that spilled across my fields.

The camera lingered between two worlds: digital sharpness and Fujifilm 400’s restless grain. Imperfections crept in — a blur under the trees, a shadow swallowing focus — yet within them lived truth. I watched as the family spread across my grass, not pressed into a single frame, but opened, each figure breathing in their own space.

When Samon drove home with the girls, NeeNee stayed behind a little longer.

The sun had just set, and in that lingering hour — my favorite — her portrait bloomed up like a flower in the dusk. It is not the portrait of a mother only, but of a beautiful woman held by evening, by film, by silence.

They left with photographs, yes. But also with me: my skyline, my wind, my shifting light. A memory not squeezed into a picture, but lived, stretched wide under my sky.