That is a running joke among my friends—I do post a fair bit of art nude work, but that wasn’t why I started photography to begin with, nor have I forgotten the reason—and it’s to keep myself curious.
How did that flower end up on the rain-soaked floor? What does it feel like, when you’re meant to be a part of happiness in a bundle, only to get left behind with a snuffed cigarette butt (which isn’t mine, just to be clear)? If those are questions, I have no answers—just an instinct to take a photograph and resist the urge to explain anything.
I can’t explain this photo or why I took it:
Nor this photo:
It’s what I saw and felt. It felt right at the time. It doesn’t matter. All these are moments in lives that we feel compelled to place as much or as little meaning on, stories that may or may not exist; but these photos exist, and in a way, proves that I have lived.
That’s enough for me. More to come.
* Obviously a joke.