As my memories become ever more fragile with each passing day, I find myself questioning my existence, my presence, and look to photography to help me recollect whom I might have been.
I wonder whether the images are merely passive documents of the fleeting moments that make up our lives, ‘this is how it unfolded’?
Or do they serve as a means of shaping and interpreting our own narratives, ‘this was the way I saw it unfold’?
Perhaps they are nothing more than a desperate attempt to hold on to what little I experienced before the encroaching void of memory-less oblivion consumes me whole?
I think they are silent sanctuaries. Tangible clouds of remembrance of a life once lived.
Each picture a misty, surreal moment in time and space, or an sliver of Self, that I now cannot recall.
Struggling but determined, I pour over their details, tracing the ghostly contours of the once-familiar faces, places, emotions that once shaped my universe, my existence.
I practiced photography as a will to remember.
And present to you this atlas of memories.
