The photographs visit me in my sleep. In the early mornings I lay awake, dreams of their elusive promise still vivid in my mind. They stop me in my tracks where I run, and I halt, gasping for air, staring in awe at the potential of a pool of water, or a field. In my mind I hear them whispering this is the most important thing, yet there is always a reason not to make the pictures. It is too sunny. I have to work. The water dried up. I don’t have a car. Yet they are there, waiting.
The air grows warmer and the scents from all the flowers hang thick like perfume. I wander through their invisible veils in the empty nighttime streets, slipping in and out of tungsten pools in the darkness. After a few hours the sky grows clear and the stars emerge above us. Then the moon rises brilliant orange, deep and vivid, resting above the hilltops. The air is thick with lilacs. Some days, thunderstorms roll onto the coast and electricity dances unseen through the air, streets steaming and black under purple clouds.
And then there are the photographs but more so, the photographers. We are all in this life together. One night the sky explodes in an orange double-rainbow and we all run breathlessly from the house, cameras in hand, stand here, look that way, don’t move. You know it when you see it. Spencer turning the car around wordlessly for the old man washing the pavement under the nighttime glow of the gas station. Annelise disappearing across a golf course, down over a hill. One evening in a backyard a rich blue dusk falls over us and there are cameras everywhere, all of us chasing each other’s portraits in the perfect humid light.
Here are some snapshots, from this life.
And finally, making the dream images.
All images: Myself and Annelise Moore.