I’m aware of it most when things don’t fully resolve, when an image, a place, or a moment lingers longer than it should. Time shows up in the delay between experience and understanding, in how meaning often arrives late, after the fact. I think about time as something elastic. A drive that lasts hours but collapses into a single feeling. A moment that passes quickly but continues to surface years later, altered slightly each time. Memory stretches and compresses events until they no longer resemble their original shape. What remains isn’t accuracy, but residue.

I’m drawn to the way time loosens authorship. Intentions fade. Context slips away. An image, once detached from its origin, becomes available to new readings. Sequencing allows these moments to speak to one another across gaps, across years, distances, different states of mind. Meaning doesn’t live in a single frame, but in proximity, in accumulation. Time also feels physical. Weathering. Rust. Growth. The quiet evidence that something has been left alone long enough to change. There’s a vulnerability in that exposure—things not designed to endure, enduring anyway. If time has taught me anything, it’s to trust what persists. The images that resist explanation. The moments that return uninvited. They tend to know more than I do.