Through the camera lens you see worlds rise and fall. Objects and people collide and disperse as you struggle with focus, exposure and composition. While you’re engaged in these decisions life changes around you and you know that out of all this flux you can only make one possibility real. You can only make one picture. So when you sense the moment is right you press the button, the quantum wave collapses and that is reality and a photograph. All done in one 125th of a second. Even if you take unlimited digital pictures one after the other the principle is the same. You’re barely making a dent in the infinity of possibilities. You’re just less aware of the process. Photography deals in space and it exists in time, which it dissects, allowing us to see its seams, as it were, its corners. With every moment our present evaporates into memory. Nothing endures or is truly solid. What we call reality is flux. This is why I take the pictures I take. Realistic, content-heavy photographs give a false account of what it’s like to be in this world. I make use of reflections in my work because this flattens the image and intensifies the two-dimensionality. It also makes it possible to capture people unawares, and render them more in balance with their surroundings, reducing their individuality, making them motifs rather than subjects. That way they don’t dominate or tell a story. Looking through the viewfinder I see such mysterious sights. Yet the magic doesn’t often survive the film developing process. But every now and then I get a film back from the lab and one image emerges strangely beautiful, so much so that I wonder how I ever took it and what cosmic forces were aligned to make this small miracle possible.