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I began collecting these baseballs in the winter of 2004-2005. Discovered in the park near my house where I walk my dog daily, they went unnoticed by others. Abject, rejected and forlorn, their state depended on the season of their discovery. Some hid in the high grass, gutted by lawnmowers, or under leaves, rotting—the leather skins long since decomposed. Covered in ice crystals on a February morning or shrouded in summer moss, they all hinted at mysterious pasts. Although I knew that one day I would photograph the burgeoning collection, most sat along a shelf in my studio for nearly a year before the exploration started. At last, I decided to photograph them above a flat field and with deep depth of focus, revealing, as much as I could, their distinct resumes.
Don Hamerman | See All Editions