Echoes of home: photographer captures loss and memory in brigantine
What remains when the walls come down? Devin Oktar Yalkin’s new photobook, Alone Together (One Last Trip Around the Garden), published by Zone, doesn't offer easy answers, but it does present a hauntingly beautiful exploration of memory, family, and the spaces we inhabit – and leave behind. It’s a quiet meditation, steeped in melancholy, that lingers long after the final page.
A family home, rendered in black and white
The project centers on Yalkin’s family home in Brigantine, New Jersey, a place that held nearly 50 years of memories. The photographs, stark and evocative in black and white, aren't portraits of a vibrant, lived-in space. Instead, they document the subtle detritus of a life well-lived: a corner of a room, a forgotten object, the quiet stillness of domestic spaces. Yalkin strips away the distractions of color, focusing instead on the interplay of light and shadow, the texture of worn surfaces, and the palpable weight of absence. As he explains, “Black and white has always felt like the most honest way for me to see. Color can be seductive, but it can also distract.”
The garden as metaphor: a record of care
The garden, meticulously cultivated by Yalkin’s parents for decades, emerges as a central motif. It wasn't a formal display, but rather an evolving reflection of their lives, a space shaped by attention and patience. After moving to California, visits became less frequent, and the garden began to represent something more than just a physical space. It became a record of care, a monument to years of nurturing, destined for an inevitable parting. The title itself, One Last Trip Around the Garden, stems from a poignant moment after Yalkin's father passed, when his mother asked for him to be taken on a final circuit of the grounds – a gesture both instinctive and profoundly moving, though the actual photograph of that moment couldn't find its place within the book's narrative.
Memory’s fragmented landscape
Yalkin isn't attempting to preserve memory in its pristine form. “I don’t think of memory as something that can be preserved intact,” he says. Instead, he captures its fragmented, shifting nature, how it reconfigures itself over time. The house, he argues, exists emotionally and psychologically, leaving behind impressions that persist long after the physical structure is gone. The editing process itself was deliberately slow, a years-long dialogue with editor Ali Hickerson, refining the sequence and allowing images to resonate through their placement. This careful curation creates a sense of quiet unfolding, mirroring the way memories themselves accumulate.
The result is a work that transcends the personal, becoming a universal reflection on the ephemeral nature of home, the enduring power of memory, and the quiet dignity of loss.