untitled

aikithereska

Text By Greg Fallis

Some photographs remind us that cameras are about snatching moments of the past. All photographs, after all, are of the past. It might be the recent past—the past of just a few seconds ago—or a more distant past, but every photo is of a moment gone.

A photograph seals that moment, fixes and settles it like a fly in amber. It'll never change, regardless of what happens to everything and everybody in the photograph. Trees in the photo may grow, or be chopped down, or damaged by storms. People may grow, or be chopped down, or damaged by storms. But in that photo everything and everybody remains unchanged, un-chopped, undamaged.

At some point in the past, Therese (or somebody) took a photograph of a beautiful blond child. Holding that photo—that one brief moment of the past, that fixed fraction of a second—in her hand, still and warm as a new-baked biscuit, she photographed herself. In doing so she melded that earlier moment with a more recent moment. Both moments are now in the past, of course, but there is something completely lovely in seeing those two moments inextricably linked.

In The Spotlight

Beach Jeté | Kat Gloor