Impatient as always, and after a night of nightmares, I shoot my first images in the dark. We say that dreams aren’t real but last night, among other things, I had a gun to my head.
Much like my memory of the dream, what I feel now from it is a blur. The blur is what’s always in between. The blur is an ever-presence of the unknown and unknowable—but the blur is felt.
And so we grasp with words and images.
We grasp at the blur.
Or, rather, we grasp back.
And I want to try and name this dizzying dialectic, too—