A Brief Crack of Light *
I don’t have time to waste. It seems paradoxical, but could this be why I feel drawn to the quiet hours, especially now in times of chaos and uncertainty? Why I feel an urgency to linger on those moments when the walls of my house settle into themselves and light moves across familiar rooms like an old friend returning?
As I approach my 80th year, I find myself drawn to the poetry that lives within our most familiar spaces. I treasure the way afternoon light can make even the most humble hallway feel like a cathedral, how mirrors hold not just our reflections but our memories. Our homes are more than shelter—they're repositories of time itself.
Each photograph holds a moment suspended, like the breath between words in a long conversation with the spaces I've inhabited. The light that filters through windows expresses the emotional warmth each room holds. And I'm interested in presence rather than portraits—the way we move through our lives, sometimes as ghosts in our own stories – hence my figures are in movement, themselves somewhere in-between.
I've always been fascinated by thresholds—those liminal spaces between rooms, between light and shadow, between one moment and the next, between the person you were and who you’re becoming. At 80, I see these transitions everywhere: in the blur of a figure moving through a hallway, in the golden glow that bathes a television screen, in the way morning light reveals the texture of wallpaper that has witnessed decades of daily life. I am learning to see the extraordinary beauty hidden in the most ordinary moment. I am learning to see with the eyes of someone who finally knows how precious everyday really is.
* "...our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." - Vladimir Nabokov
