About the work

Some things simply keep happening, and it is our job to find them. The world, after all, is not waiting for us to make sense of it. It’s too busy being itself. And perhaps that’s enough, this constant, unceasing being, whether we are there to document its particular texture, or not. Even then, an image can act as a kind of witness, not to a grand event, but to the quiet insistence of the everyday. It’s an accidental record, really, a moment caught in the endless flow of other moments, each with its own tiny, insistent hum. The fog, for instance, isn’t trying to make a statement. It’s just occupying the space it has been given, blurring the edges of what we think we know. And the streetlights, they continue to pulse, even if their light is swallowed, a small, stubborn defiance against the encroaching grey.