Late at night, under open sky, I set the shutter and walk into the frame. The exposure runs for minutes. Whatever I do — stay still, move, disappear — the camera decides what counts as real.
Stillness registers as form. Movement erases.
The stars in these photographs aren't background. They're the same material as the body in front of them — carbon, hydrogen, time. The self that feels fixed and separate is, by the end of the exposure, just a trace.
These are self-portraits. They're also the opposite of self-portraits.
A self-portrait insists on presence — here I am, this is my face, this is how I looked on this day. These images ask a different question. Not who am I, but what remains when the insistence falls away. Was I ever there, in front of the camera? By the time the shutter closed, the evidence was already dissolving.
