Frames of Reference:
Stories of Individuation Captured in Light
Live Event Program
Friday, April 21st, 2023
Presenter: Brett Colvin
Brett’s photography career spans 30 years of fine art, commercial and editorial work. His photographs have been featured in the New York Times, Golf Magazine, GQ, Wall Street Journal, Consumer Magazine Awards, and the New York One Show. He has been an official photographer at the Sundance Institute and Film Festival for 10 years. Brett has also owned a photo paper business in the Czech Republic, hiked the Grand Canyon rim to rim (twice), and attended Burning Man 13 times.
Presenter: Kelly Hannah
Kelly moved to Salt Lake City from Big Bear Lake, California in 1986 to attend Rowmark Ski Academy and later graduated from the University of Utah with a degree in film studies. While in college, Kelly started a photography business. After graduation, he worked on production sets including the television series Touched by an Angel and the spinoff, Promised Land. Currently, you can view 30 of Kelly’s images of the Great Salt Lake on display at the Utah State Capitol until January 2024.
Presenter: Christian West
The person behind this event’s concept and our guide for the evening, Chris Farmer is an adventure photographer professionally known as Christian West. Chris is additionally a member of our board of directors, our own volunteer photographer, has completed outdoor shoots for brands like Santero Apparel, and exhibits his work around Salt Lake City.
Live Music: Christine Baird
Singer-songwriter and Utah native Christine Baird spent the last ten years in New York City and is excited to be back performing in her home state. She has established herself as a dynamic solo performer from coast to coast and brings a soulful country flavor to her acoustic shows and original music. Most recently, Christine performed two shows with Sofar Sounds in Los Angeles. She is currently working on her debut full-length album!
Website | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram | Youtube
Opening Poet: Chelsea Guevara
Chelsea Guevara is a proud U.S.-Salvadoreña who spends her time thinking about culture, language, and birds. She began to write poetry during high school, and found it to be a powerful tool to interpret and express her experiences surrounding her intersectional identity. Since then, Chelsea has continued to write and perform in various art and academic spaces within her local Utah community, compete at international womxn slams, and serves as a poetry coach for the spoken word team at Kearns High School.
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Somewhere Over the Border
Somewhere over the border,
you wrap your arms around your sister for the first time.
Look up to a face that you will forever be told holds your reflection in it
and won’t let go until you’re reminded:
there is an entire bloodline extending out to you at this very moment
that you’ve only ever seen in pictures.
Somewhere over the border,
there is a song that plays on the car radio with no censorship.
Like, does not cut out the word f-word
and your mouth falls open like it does
when you try to explain things in a language you know
but your mouth has not learned yet.
Somewhere over the border,
there is art dressing the body of every brick wall that blurs past the car windows;
wrapping around their curves in layers of spray paint,
and there is art, and there is art,
and there is poetry, and there are poets
you didn’t know there was art.
It gets lost in your family’s stories about the farm and the war.
It gets lost in the wide-open mouths of politicians
in all the talk of pandillas y la violencia and survival
they don’t talk about how smart we are.
From the books that were held
or the ones that couldn’t be afforded
they don’t talk about all the beautiful things we make with our hands.
Somewhere over the border,
there are hundreds of birds singing outside the airport
asking you not to leave.
And your lips tug for a smile,
open and wait for a language you know
but your mouth has not learned yet.
How do you tell the birds you never wanted to go in the first place?
…and somewhere over the border, after the plane ride,
he eats Pollo Campero con ketchup like you do at home.
And you eat frozen tamales after unpacking the suitcases
and what a whiff of crema sent by your grandmother can do for your endorphins;
draw them out of hiding when they are diluted-
drowning in all of the longing in your body for a country that is home
but has never been your home.
Because somewhere over the border
sometimes feels like the most unfamiliar home in existence.
Because somewhere over the border,
is where you have to explain that El Salvador is not in Mexico
and have to explain to people why your accent doesn’t sound like a direct import
and you are waiting for your mouth to catch up-
to learn the language of your father that you swear begs you
to remember something that you know is there
but you have not found yet.
And somewhere over the border,
you are convinced that you know more than your body allows you to.
That there are memories as fuzzy as cattails that have grown over centuries calling you back to this land
ones that if you grab too hard
will turn seedling fluff
and fall through your fingers
ones that you know,
but your mouth has not learned yet.
And somewhere over the border,
I dream of having children
and how I wonder
if they will inherit this distant remembering
and how I hope it won’t hurt as much.
But that they’ll still hold the feeling that
you knew what you were thinking.
You knew what you were just about to say-
take as much time as you need because
it will come back to you
it will come back.
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