Light is everything.
It is our knowledge, our perception, our friends, our family, our time, our circumstances, energy, matter, information, the essence of our experience of being and of the world, for those of us that weren’t born blind.
Light is the most fundamental substrate of human being; it is all of existence, both phenomenologically and instrumentally, in very real ways.
Light is the primordial force of the universe, the place at which empiricism, mysticism, and self meet.
And of course light requires space in order to be these things. Without space, or if space is interrupted, light breaks down—and then so does everything else.
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This is why I and so many others are drawn to photography; it feels as though you’re using the universe, being, and your own presence in the world as a fact as a kind of modeling clay.
I suspect that most photographers are also the sorts of people that love to sit down and simply look at things, big or little. A stadium full of tens of thousands of people, sure, but also the spine of a book, or the fragmented and ephemeral reflection of a window across a tabletop.
The sitters-and-lookers, the ones that everyone else is bewildered by, thinks are weird, and so on—they are the light and space people, the people who, when they see the dusk spreading across a carpeted floor in a dim room, realize that they are looking at the raw essence of being, the one truth in the human universe.