Photography · I

No One Is Watching

Ongoing

No One Is Watching began with a contradiction: every anonymous figure carries a life as vast and unknowable as our own, yet what reaches us is only a shape crossing an immense frame. These are mostly older men, alone, or seemingly alone. I don't plan these encounters. I photograph what I feel in the moment, and the image becomes a record of that feeling as much as of the man in front of me. What looks like a perfectly caught moment is really my own emotion, transferred onto the frame the instant I press the shutter.

I think of a person less as a self than as an archive, a system of folders holding what hasn't been said. From a distance, these men look empty. But emptiness is a perception, not a fact. Purpose doesn't disappear with age; it only shifts, and the same is true of feeling. What looks like nothing is often everything, just filed away.

Each photograph is paired with a poem, written just as spontaneously, in the same emotional register as the image it accompanies. Neither is planned before the other; both surface from the same feeling at the same time.

// Best heard against Pierre by Men I Trust

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I. The Wanderer

poem

How far must I walk to find what's truly mine?
It seems this trek is endless; I keep getting lost,
losing my sense of direction.
Can anyone direct me back onto my path?
But if that happens, is it really my path any longer?
It has been tainted, altered by an outside force.

Even in confusion, even at loss,
I will continue down my path.
I will reach my destination.
I will alter my course, I will track my coordinates,
I will find my way.

I am The Wanderer, and my path is solely mine.

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II. Searching

poem

Who am I even
Searching for?
Sometimes I wonder if
Searching itself is my
destination.

Who am I really trying to find?
Is it a person? an emotion? a dream? knowledge?

The vast ocean seems almost minuscule
in view of my everlasting search.

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A figure contained within a geometric space

III. Inside the Box

poem

An endless loop
Inside The Box.

The box might seem suffocating, empty, vast,
yet escaping it is the only choice for survival.

The less constricting the box,
the more freedom we believe we have.

There is no
freedom within the box,
there is only constriction.

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V. In the Event of Rising Tides

poem

I am not moving forward, am I?
How come my feet are pulling me back, do I want to return?
I'm not sure. I'm not sure anymore.

The sea is beautiful, though. The tides are quite powerful.

In the event of rising tides, I'll have to move away.
I do not want to move away from this beautiful ocean.

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VI. Winter Warmth

poem

To be alone is to feel emotions in conjunction.
Emotional planes tend to become obsolete when feeling deeply.

A fruitless orchard.
A filled blank canvas.
A Winter Warmth.

Once we stop conflating emotion with separation,
we may start to fully experience
what emotions were meant to be.

Systems, fully felt, fully understood,
equally, indiscernibly…

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VII. To Whom It May Concern

poem

To whom it may concern,

The end does not seem as relevant as it once was.
Was there ever a start to begin with?
It might have been missed along the way.
The long, narrow, terrifying way.

To whom it may concern,

The beginning is not as clear as once was expected.
The previously lush grass and colorful flowers have become dull.
What will become of this path in the end? Will the colors return eventually?
The wait feels endless.

To whom it may concern,

I have stopped at a bench here, there, nowhere.
The light from the street lamp nearby makes me feel quite warm.
How long ago did I begin this journey? How long has it been over?
Who knows.

At least I feel warm.

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VIII. Until We Meet Again

poem

Until we meet again, I will continue to move forward.
Until the sun begins to set, I will continue to bask in the heat.
Until the weight of my umbrella buckles under the heavy rain,
I will continue to hold it tightly.
Until I stop moving, I will continue to step forward.

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XI. The Briefcase

poem

We never tend to know what
The Briefcase holds.
We live with the ambiguity of its contents.

We try to disregard the weight, the shape, the color.

The Briefcase is always full,
no matter how much we decide to look away,
to pretend it doesn't exist.

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Two figures walking apart along a shoreline

XV. To the One I Love

poem

To the one I love,

I'm not really sure what to tell you..
How long has it been?
A year? 2? Who knows

Life has continued,
or at least, I think it has.

How have you been?
How is your family?
I just wanted to check in.

I miss you.
If you come back, please let me know.
I would like to see you.

Or maybe I wouldn't.
I'm not so sure.

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A man walking along the shoreline, holding his shoes

XVI. Surrender

poem

For as the heart continues to cool,
My eyes continue to widen.

For as the eyes continue to widen
My mind grows weary

For as the mind begins to grow weary,
My hands tremble.

For as my hands tremble,
My very existence comes into question

For as existence comes into question,
My head lowers.

For as the head lowers,
I surrender.

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A figure seen from behind, silhouetted against drifting smoke

XVII. Shameful Resurrection

poem

Being reborn does not absolve me of my shame.
Neither tears, nor ache, nor suffering.

Being reborn does not absolve me of my sins.
It has only compounded my sorrowful nature;
This grotesque image I see before me,
It is not one created for purity, nor for transcendence.
It was created to learn of shame, to beg for protection, and to fall under the weight of fear.

What a shameful life.
What a shameful death.
What a shameful resurrection.

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