By the mid 1960’s I was spending each summer at ‘Mi Casa’, renting a little shack at the edge of the woods by a summer nudist camp that catered to upscale NY outdoors types. I’d commute from there to various industrial/nature photography gigs in the area. On the way I would frequently stop at yard sales, always on the lookout for interesting cameras, sporting goods, guns, camping gear, and other useful bric-a-brac. One day there was a set of old butcher’s knives and blocks from a shop that had closed. One knife had a particular look and heft to it and I bought it. Back home at my little workbench, I found myself cleaning it and replacing the worn wooden handle, sharpening and polishing out the blade. This was all unusually comforting; until it dawned on me that I was making a copy of my old WWII Killing Knife. I hadn’t set eyes on my old knife for over twenty years; it was tucked away in the dark drawers and boxes of my apartment in Washington Heights. This blade had a similar shape and weight to it, and I had been unconsciously drawn to it.
I put this project away unfinished.