the story of a photograph

Cropping, adjusting color - being true to my vision of the photograph and then it hits - a moment, a look I only now remember seeing… lingering eye contact and a press of the shutter. A split second before someone walks into the frame and the light turns green.

The look tugs at my heart… he is, or at least what he is, is the reason I wanted to go to India. He is also the reason I was afraid to go.

I am western. It’s obvious I’m not from anywhere even near India. I’m even more awkward for carrying a giant black box of a camera. It’s almost as glaring as my blonde hair and my tortoise shell ray bans. I shouldn’t be surprised every Indian man I saw stared me down, but it was this look - this one look that sticks. It wasn't one of novelty or desire… it’s more of vindictiveness and fear, perhaps in equal measure.

And who am I to document? To tell a story I know nearly nothing about? Who am I to snap a picture and make a photograph?

But this is my truth - It is part of my story to tell another. To show and remember. To pause time for a fraction of a second - right before the light turns green.

Just to show the world what I see.