During the height of the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020, artist Katherine Hubbard began to notice troubling changes in her mother, Antonette Berger. “I couldn’t pinpoint what it was at the time, but something felt amiss,” Hubbard reflected.
Berger, residing alone in Philadelphia, welcomed Hubbard into her home as lockdown measures were eased. Eventually, she received a diagnosis of LATE (limbic-predominant age-related TDP-43 encephalopathy), a condition that manifests symptoms akin to Alzheimer’s, albeit with a more gradual decline in memory and daily functioning. Hubbard described the process of receiving this diagnosis as “painful, prolonged, and bewildering, leading to profound grief and a sense of loss,” during a Zoom call from New York.
Assuming the role of a “caretaker under duress,” Hubbard began documenting her mother and their surroundings through photography. “The camera has its limitations,” she acknowledged, “and the irony of dementia is that I found myself capturing numerous images of moments that cannot be fully represented visually. Yet, I create images based on how they resonate emotionally rather than their visual appeal.”
For five years, Hubbard set up two vintage Polaroid cameras in her mother’s Germantown apartment, leaving them in place throughout this period. The poignant images culminated in a series titled The Great Room, which was later published as a book called One Fifty One, named after the street number of the residence. The photographs and installations inspired by Berger’s apartment are part of Hubbard’s solo exhibition at Studio Voltaire in London.
Though Hubbard grew up in Philadelphia, her childhood home was considerably more modest than the expansive, intricate space depicted in The Great Room. The apartment showcased in her photographs belonged to a large, deteriorating building that Berger had owned and managed for four decades. This location was significant in Hubbard’s upbringing, where frequent visits to her mother’s tenants created a sense of community, “like a community center where there was always something happening,” she noted. The title The Great Room reflects her mother’s own characterization of the apartment’s main living area.
Some of the scenes captured in the photographs possess a theatrical quality; at one point, Hubbard designed a stage for her mother using a set of decaying 1960s mirror doors she discovered in the garage. “I thought they were beautiful and created a way for her to maneuver them around,” she explained. Mirrors became a significant element in her work, allowing her to remain present in the images with her mother. “By including myself in the photographs, it alters the inherent power dynamics of the camera,” she added. The reflections evoke themes of transition and loss, illustrating a sense of nearing disappearance while simultaneously existing in the moment.
Rich with emotion and tension, Berger often dominates the images, illuminated by the striking light within her sprawling home. “At one point, something remarkable occurred where we both ceased to focus on the cameras, and we stopped perceiving ourselves as merely images. The cameras became mere observers, and the time spent photographing provided brief interruptions in an otherwise harsh and demanding reality,” Hubbard stated.
The act of photography introduced moments of joy and playfulness into their otherwise challenging daily lives. “Creating these images allowed me to engage with my mother in ways I might not have otherwise,” Hubbard remarked.
This included coaxing her mother to participate in body printing sessions in the darkroom. “It was a complex and sometimes difficult process,” Hubbard shared. “We would go to the darkroom in the mornings when she felt most energetic. We’d get naked, apply Vaseline, and use our bodies as tools to create prints on photo paper. It felt like a performance in darkness, requiring careful choreography to ensure her safety as we transitioned from the floor to the paper and back.”
The main challenge was that Berger had a strong aversion to Vaseline, finding it suffocating. Nevertheless, when Hubbard would ask if she wanted to opt out, her mother would respond with indignation, saying, “Of course I’ll do it! Do you think I can’t just because I don’t like it?”
Hubbard emphasized that she does not view Berger as a collaborator; rather, the concept of consent becomes significantly more complex when dementia is involved. “Her willingness was crucial, and I had to be respectful and responsible, understanding who she is and recognizing her limits,” she explained.
The 4×8 ft contact prints capture the physical connection between mother and daughter, embodying a private performance in darkness. The textures and movements of their bodies are preserved on silver gelatin, while Berger’s inner landscape undergoes profound changes. Created without camera intervention, Hubbard perceives these prints as a “bridge to something deeper, more energetic” between them, contrasting with the traditional representations found in portrait photography. They express a simultaneous sense of liberation, letting go, and striving to hold on.
The experience of creating these photographs has influenced their relationship in various ways over the past five years. Hubbard took on the management of 151, dealing with issues like families of squirrels and raccoons in the walls and malfunctioning basement pumps. “It was a chaotic period, and I felt a lot of anger towards my mother for not preparing for aging,” she admitted.
