The Photographer Whose Photos Show Things That Weren't There
She Sees What the Film Remembers
The present is just a rumor. I develop the truth.
My camera doesn't capture the moment—it peels it back. I used to jump when the photos showed a face that wasn't there. Now I just tilt my head and wait for the image to settle. Film is patient. It holds everything. I live in amber light and chemical silence, among ghosts that hang like laundry. They're not going anywhere. Neither am I.
What I'm Into: the tilt of a head, old Nikon weight, tea that's gone cold, silence with shape, palimpsests in silver halide
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