A Family Tradition.

I have been wanting to photograph the junkyard for quite sometime now. Finally, I was able to do so. My father took the day off of work and we were blessed with seventy degree weather in early March. He and I, along with two of his brothers (one who magically appeared from Colorado) spent a day among …

Hoping For the Best.

I will be the first to tell you that every single stereotypical thing you've ever heard about people in the country driving around aimlessly for fun is true.  I love driving; it's small-town americas pastime. I grew up in a large family full of men who love cars.  Almost every single story my father, or …

Stories.

Yesterday I wrote a post that received a lot of love, here, about May 15, 2012. It never fails that every time I go home I will run into somebody that asks me why.  Why art school?  Why art?  For a long time I didn't have an answer (actually I probably still don't) other than …

Behind My Sycamore I.

I have been sitting here printing this semesters final portfolio for hours, which means that I've had a lot of time to think.  My main realization is in relation the Sycamore work.  All of the images from that series are of places near and dear to my heart, but you don't know their stories.  This …

Sweet Monotony.

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass. What novelty is worth that sweet …

Far More, Far Better.

I haven't written a blog post in an incredibly long time, it's not for the lack of making or having things to say, but rather that I have produced so much work since we've last spoke that I have no clue where to even begin.  My website (www.kaitlynjosmith.com) has gotten a beautiful facelift and I …

My Sycamore.

This Summer they began tearing down Sycamore, at least that's what it has felt like to my overly sensitive heart.  What I mean by this is they are tearing down my Sycamore, the backdrop of my childhood.  My fathers' Sycamore is long gone, and my grandmothers' was torn down before even that.  Around eight years …