To look at the image is to realize that we are all made of these fragments. We are the soft focus of a summer afternoon and the sharp, jagged edges of a winter morning. Alison remains still, a digital monument to a breath once taken, waiting for someone to hit refresh.
When you open it, the colors bleed at the edges, a soft lavender spill into a sharp, clinical white. It isn't a portrait so much as it is a collection of memories caught in a digital net. Alison isn’t looking at the camera; she’s looking through it, toward a horizon that the lens couldn’t quite capture. Alison image
There is a tactile quality to her presence—the way the sun catches the stray threads of a wool sweater, the slight tilt of her head that suggests a secret just about to be shared. But at the corner of her jaw, the image begins to fray. A few pixels have strayed, humming with a static that feels like a whisper. It’s a reminder that every image is a ghost: a slice of a second preserved forever, while the real Alison has already walked out of the frame and into the next moment. To look at the image is to realize