"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." - Victor Hugo : a small photo essay on a piano player.

In our living room sits a hundred year old piano, with several keys missing their ivory, and only the sustain pedal left. On top of it rests a sign, from my great grandparent's farm, the paint cracked and peeling and the words fading. Usually, we have books piled and artwork stacked on it somewhere, and somehow, it becomes a gathering place for random objects and small mementos. The piano books that sit nestled in the bench and crammed on the front, stained and scribbled in with pencil, contain notes from my mom's piano teacher's twenty years ago.

There is a remarkable history to it all that I love. Playing piano is something that my grandpa does, my mom does, and now, I do. And being able to share in something that is a small legacy, through a piano and books that all carry their own story, is one of my favorite things. I wanted to celebrate the movement in the music, the melody in the motion, because piano and music in general is very close to my heart. It breathes. And so, this is a very small, very personal photo essay on a piano player -- my mom.