Every photograph is a small argument with time.
Threshold
Moments slip away while we try to hold them. As the present grows thinner, the past grows thick with memory.
At some point, the elders step aside, and those who once stood on the sidelines enter something that once belonged to them: a quiet hobby, a patient craft.
Someone new lifts the camera.
Photography asks for patience, stillness, and the willingness to wait for something that may never arrive or land.
Time steers the new generation to document moments from their own lives—
moments that will pass, and later return as memories.
Photographs live at a strange boundary.
They pretend to keep the present alive, yet they belong entirely to the past.
When the moment begins to slip away,
one waits for the subject,
another waits for the thought.
Both are trying to catch something
that disappears quickly.