I struggle with memory, and photography has become my method of time travel. When I look at my photographs, moments resurrect themselves—suddenly I’m back in that space, my senses recalling details and sensations I thought were lost. These visits are brief. I know I can’t stay. But for that moment, I can remember who I was and understand why I’ve become who I am.
There’s a cruel irony in how I capture these moments. When shooting with a single-lens reflex camera, the mirror that allows me to see through the lens must flip up during exposure, blocking my view at the precise instant the photograph is made. The moments you see pictured, I did not see when they occurred. I experienced them only after—in the darkroom, on the screen. Not even my memories are real.
These photographs document moments I never saw, inviting us to imagine what happened in my blindness.
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