An art teacher gave me this antique leather miner’s bag when I was 15 or 16 years old. She used to keep her art supplies in it. I don’t know why she gave it to me. It might have been her last year teaching at my high school. I liked that teacher. I didn’t like most, but with her it was no BS. She’d look at our work and say things like, “I want you to surprise both of us. Right now, I’m not surprised and you shouldn’t be either. But that doesn’t mean you should stop.”

I used this bag as a purse for years but after it began to deteriorate, I started keeping photos in it. I was obsessed with old photos of my parents. I loved thinking about when they were young. I would take old medium-format photos from my mom’s closet. My mom hanging out as a teenager, sitting on some steps in St. Louis. People around a table at what might be a potluck. My parents kissing, maybe they had just gotten married at the courthouse. It’s like, “You used to be this person? That’s insane.” I’m a glutton for nostalgia. I treasure those photos and I keep them in this old miner’s bag. Looking the way it does, this old bag sort of says what’s in it, you know?