It is sometimes very difficult to know what you are feeling. You can detect movements, perceive shifts in tension, and perhaps the volume of a feeling, but not be able to give it a name. When I look inside my own mind, I am often confronted by a wall of congealed images so thick and gray, there’s no hope of getting past it, so I lift up the lid of my skull and peer downward. Inside is a goldfish bowl full of shadows that slip and slither over one another. Somehow, I understand these shadows are feelings, but just as I figure this out, they disperse into my body and form an additional membrane under my skin. In short, you can be aware that you are feeling something and not have any idea what, specifically, it is: a recipe for madness.

Enter a photograph -

Without fuss, without effort, a photograph can contain within it information that mirrors an exact feeling. The brain sees the content of the photograph and suddenly the vagueness floating inside of it acquires a form, a scene. The picture is now the feeling and photography becomes a shorthand for it. This is why it is hard to say more than ‘I love this’ or ‘that’s cool’ when looking at a photo. Any deeper reaction plunges us back into the murk of the nervous system, where there are only temperatures and heartbeats.