Projector navigates past and present in Michael Catherwood’s world of colorful scenarios of a one-armed Vietnam Vet running pool tables, dreaming alternate endings to John Wayne films, a vacation photo of a father scalping his son next to a teepee in the deserts of Arizona, and a man frozen in time.ProjectorThe 59 Dodge is parked in the drivewaywhere its tail fins stab the air, mirrorsgray with gravel roads. Here our lives are,jumpy and crooked against the stucco,Dad’s practice swing a slow shadowthat folds across a burned-out lawn.  Eight months pregnant, Mom springsfrom the Ford Fairlane wagon embarrassed.Close up: her bright red lipstick disappearsinto the house.There’s the old garagebefore it collapsed, its hinged doorscockeyed and wide open . . .

Projector navigates past and present in Michael Catherwood’s world of colorful scenarios of a one-armed Vietnam Vet running pool tables, dreaming alternate endings to John Wayne films, a vacation photo of a father scalping his son next to a teepee in the deserts of Arizona, and a man frozen in time.ProjectorThe 59 Dodge is parked in the drivewaywhere its tail fins stab the air, mirrorsgray with gravel roads. Here our lives are,jumpy and crooked against the stucco,Dad’s practice swing a slow shadowthat folds across a burned-out lawn.  Eight months pregnant, Mom springsfrom the Ford Fairlane wagon embarrassed.Close up: her bright red lipstick disappearsinto the house.There’s the old garagebefore it collapsed, its hinged doorscockeyed and wide open . . .

Projector navigates past and present in Michael Catherwood’s world of colorful scenarios of a one-armed Vietnam Vet running pool tables, dreaming alternate endings to John Wayne films, a vacation photo of a father scalping his son next to a teepee in the deserts of Arizona, and a man frozen in time.ProjectorThe 59 Dodge is parked in the drivewaywhere its tail fins stab the air, mirrorsgray with gravel roads. Here our lives are,jumpy and crooked against the stucco,Dad’s practice swing a slow shadowthat folds across a burned-out lawn.  Eight months pregnant, Mom springsfrom the Ford Fairlane wagon embarrassed.Close up: her bright red lipstick disappearsinto the house.There’s the old garagebefore it collapsed, its hinged doorscockeyed and wide open . . .