Present, but not perceived

I’ve been wandering through an unfinished game called The Museum of Things That Never Happened. Beside me, a notebook has been filling with borrowed lines, questions, and photographs I haven’t made yet.

A translucent house, lit from below. Windows oddly placed, no doors. Portraits watching the person who came to look at them.

Somewhere along the way, the game became a place to examine how I make photographs.

“Being seen isn’t the same as being understood.”

I wrote that down. Nearby, I reminded myself to ask the subject about its story, even if the subject is miniature and inanimate.

There’s something compelling about extending that question to a plastic figure. Looking closely at its gesture, its surroundings, the small world it seems to inhabit. Allowing what I find there to influence the photograph. Leaving room for the subject to complicate my intentions.

I’m also drawn to photographing things that are present but not perceived. What would such a photograph offer as evidence? How easily does an image become proof of whatever we have already decided it shows?

A photograph records something, but the frame has edges. A title can steer us. Something can remain unseen while occupying the space directly in front of us.

“The viewer completes the process.”

I like allowing the viewer that much room. Their attention helps determine what the photograph includes: a detail becomes a story, a shadow becomes a presence. They may find something I placed there without understanding it myself.

“Because being incorrect isn’t the same as being uninteresting.”

That line has stayed with me, too. I wonder what an unexpected reading might open up, and whether I can stay curious when a photograph speaks differently to someone else.

The game is still unfolding. So are these thoughts. For now, they live beside a drawing of a strange little house, waiting to see what happens when I give them light.