I like this photograph. Tell me what this woman is thinking, what she thinks about the photographer taking her picture. Pictures are not words. If they convey a story, they are stories that are made up by each of us, unique and alone inside of our own heads. Same picture, two different viewers, two different stories, perhaps two totally different stories, the greater the difference, the stronger, the more moving, the better. I hope that if she were to see this picture she would like it, for reasons different than mine, for reasons different than yours, but that it might elicit (an inner) smile. Why do I shoot pictures like these? The answer lies in the pictures themselves and perhaps the reason is ultimately no reason at all, that they really don't work for anyone other than myself. For now, they occasionally whisper, and I occasionally hear something I can't quite make out. Perhaps another lens, a faster film, a younger man with a clearer mind. Or time. And practice. And then again, maybe all this is just my own little hallucination, tripping along in a solitary dream packing a camera. Two cameras.