Lighthouse

Boston Harbor. 2009.

Flying in at dawn. I love how solid the water looks, how long the lighthouse's shadow is. I love seeing dawn from high up, as if by being in the sky, you're part of the sun's family, an equal. Like you're somehow responsible for all those below you.

Her Shoes

Boston. 2005.

July. Warm even with air conditioning. Languid air drifting through large buildings; green sprouting, straining outward; moisture in the lungs and on the skin. Sleeping with the window open, with no blankets on; a sheet, maybe. Dressing in clean, cool clothes.

I miss the varied certainties of Boston. The red brick, the modern architecture. The large, protected open spaces surrounded by sweating, crowded streets. Polluted, accessible water ways. Heat-white skies in summer.

I miss this moment, when a woman I barely knew lay still for me, while I photographed her hand, her calves. Her shoes.