A love letter, pulled from a written correspondence between my parents in their youth, is left in the sunlight resting on light-sensitive paper. When lifted from its place, every letter leaves a unique and abstracted imprint. A softened echo of what once lay on the paper, and of the love it contained.
Through the transience of the photographic exposures, each imprint takes on a life of its own. Unless chemically fixed, an imprint first lives, then dies under the light. It is as capable of loss and change as the individuals who wrote the original letters.
As a result of this humanness, the work exists on the scale of life. It is born. It experiences time. It ages. Its skin changes in the light. It fades.