Roda uses himself, his wife and his son as actors in his effort to record "one moment in time that hovers between memories and constructed commentaries." In several of his elaborate set-ups he is wearing sleeveless women's frocks; in one, a long, blond wig. Clearly, his cross-dressing is not aimed at fooling anybody, since his muscular arms and hairy legs are strikingly visible. So what is the message? Is he staking out a bit of the nurturing role for himself? (This interpretation has some weight, because in another photo he's wearing a woman's apron and serving his son something out of a frying pan.)
The implied narratives in his photographs—one a birthday party for his son, complete with conical party hats and homemade cake—seem pretty straightforward. But then there are the apparent incongruities. They are bundled up in winter clothing; the table is a makeshift affair set on saw horses; rough-hewn planks of wood lean on the wall. Is he literally reconstructing the past? If so, to what end?
As interesting as these narrative pictures are to contemplate, the ones that stick in my mind feature his young son alone or as the dominant figure. The most potent depicts his son standing on a chair in the foreground. His slender, shirtless body is seen in profile, dark except for the crown of his head emblazoned by an overhead shop light, suggesting both a crown and halo and giving him a solemn air, reminding me of depictions of an Egyptian boy king. The distant mirror reflection of the other side of his face serves as a point of light from which all the elements of the composition radiate. In a dark recess is a Raggedy Ann doll, the face covered by a headshot of an older woman; behind her is a series of childlike paintings of quaint houses. Roda's use of his son as a stand-in for himself as a child allows the feeling of being the center of the world.
For me, the photographs get less successful in proportion to his son's position and role in each. When the boy is acting out a narrative tableau with his parents, the magic is gone. Roda's elaborately staged pieces, or "constructed commentaries," are the least evocative; the one exception is a photograph that features the artist himself, seated, his pants down around his ankles, but wearing a woman's dress. He's holding what looks like an internal organ (a heart?), or perhaps a fetus, attached to a cord. A crucifix hangs on a wall beside him. In a dark corner a large headshot of an older man (the artist's father?) hides his grandson so that only his hands are visible, reaching around the photo in an embrace. He seems to be saying the artist as creator has elements of the masculine and feminine, as well as being the receiver and giver of traditions.
In comparison to others who do staged photography, Roda is less illusionistic or technically slick; but in his artist's statement he explicitly states his process is improvisational and the rough-around-the-edges results are metaphors for his family traditions. He wants the images to be gritty and reflect how life really is. Although the results are sometimes murky and hard to interpret, he often succeeds in invoking memories of a treasured childhood.