A photograph is by necessity a still frame of the observer’s life. Whether it is a manicured shoot, a photo of a loved one, or a street shot, all frames exist as an extrusion of this one person’s life. The poem of their soul. Therefor, like a writer, a photographer cannot help but leave a part of themselves in every work.
The imagination plays its role, it becomes the thread that binds the present to the past. The photograph becomes the shadow on Plato’s wall, as the gallery participant watches the work and asks, “What of this photo? What did it mean to be there, and why?”.
Now the image is no longer its present reality, as we view it, it is a fragment out of time. A bird without its flock; a suggestion of what was. But because it can convey to us no more than what we see in it, it shows us who we are, it reflects in us our own imagination. Here we find the union of two experiences, unaware of each other and never having touched.