I found a chair.

I don’t know why I kept carrying it. Through the trees, across the creek, deeper into the farm — I carried it the entire time. I placed it carefully, each time, in a place that felt right. Then I stood in front of it. And I let the shutter stay open long enough for me to begin to disappear.

That is what these six photographs are. A record of me being there and not being there at the same time.

The forest does not need the chair. The landscape does not need me. And yet we were there together — the chair, the trees, and a body slowly fading into a long exposure — and for a moment that arrangement meant something I cannot put into words. Which is, I think, exactly the point.

Something I found, something I couldn’t leave behind. A burden I kept choosing to carry without fully understanding why. I placed it in the landscape the way you place a thought you can’t resolve: carefully, and with the quiet knowledge that it will not stay.

The long exposure and the cyanotype share something I didn’t understand until I held the finished prints. Both are acts of light writing absence. One dissolves a body into a scene. The other burns an image into paper and fixes what is already gone. That cold Prussian blue is not the color of the forest as it was — it is the color of a memory the light kept after everything else moved on.

The chair is probably still there. Or it isn’t. The forest has already moved on.

— SF