SUSPENDED ANIMATIOn
In the early months of 2020, the future seemed to collapse into an endless present. Days lost their edges. Time became difficult to measure. The familiar structures of work, movement, intimacy, and ordinary life were interrupted, and the world I had known suddenly felt unstable and provisional.
Like many people, I found myself confined to home, disoriented by fear, grief, and uncertainty. Making photographs became a way to stay connected to the visible world when so much else felt unreachable. The act of looking gave shape to days that otherwise blurred together.
The images in Suspended Animation were made close to home. Many are reflections, shadows, fragments, and ordinary surfaces seen repeatedly over a long period of sameness. They are not records of dramatic events, but of a changed perception: the way light moved through a room, the way the outside world appeared through glass, the way a familiar place could become strange.
I am never more at ease than when I am making pictures. During that period, photography offered a kind of emotional and physical steadiness. It allowed me to mark time, to notice small shifts, and to remain in conversation with the world, even from within isolation.
These photographs belong to a singular experience, but one that was also widely shared. They hold the uncertainty, suspension, and vulnerability of that time, while also insisting that beauty and attention remain possible, even under conditions of fear.