Ohio Lunch

Ohio Lunch is less a meal than a season that lasted ten years.

It wanders through Midwestern light the way memory does, lingering on corners, hovering in doorways, returning to the same streets until they begin to speak back.

The food is incidental, a prop on the table while time itself pulls up a chair.

What matters is the hum of ordinary rooms, the quiet negotiations of pride and fatigue, the choreography of survival dressed as routine.

Here, culture is not declared but absorbed, in vinyl booths and parking lots, in hand-painted signs and fluorescent afternoons.

There is affection without sentimentality, a belief that even the most modest places hold a private grandeur.

Struggle moves through the frames like weather, sometimes harsh, sometimes tender, always shaping the landscape of faces and façades.

Across a decade, the project becomes a love letter written in the dialect of the Midwest, steady and unspectacular, yet stubbornly luminous.