The summers in New England are short. Panic is a passenger to the delight of the season’s warm weather. Daily, is the pursuit of absorbing its entirety before the transition from August into September. This seasonal change, from summer to fall, is intoxicating to me and has a special way of coaxing my attention to points of insignificance - everything is important.
This past summer distinctly effected states of euphoria as I would observe the light of golden hour shifting through the passing weeks. The crickets begin to sing in August, you can smell the pavement when it rains, and I find myself grabbing a sweater for an evening walk.
Each photograph is meant as a love letter to the simple nature of the temporal. The story of the light writes the potency of nostalgia and ritual, conceived in my bones and blood.
