There’s a certain level of insanity that invests itself in the minds of artists. Frantically creating, capturing moments, jotting down notes in hopes of accurately expressing the abstract in a way that makes sense. Each work of art is itself an attempt to make sense of the world around us, each attempt more and more futile. A professor that I trust greatly once told me that we are all constantly searching for something in our lifetime, but there is no end goal. We just die.
It is with that exact notion in mind that I photograph. I take pictures not to capture beauty or preserve memories but out of sheer anxiety of forgetting. I’m absolutely terrified of losing a moment I will never get back, so I capture it. Much like placing a firefly in a jar at night, taking pictures is merely a means of capturing light in a way that illuminates something I’m terrified of, a darkness I’d rather not face. Being able to produce beautiful works of art by preserving these moments allows me to be at ease knowing I did my part in trying to hold tight to a second in time. After the shutter goes off there’s nothing else I can do but reminisce and revel in nostalgia, hoping someone one day will see what I saw in that moment.