Someone young is behind the lens. But not in front. The photographer waits, deliberates, makes adjustments, and snaps the shutter. The image is bright, the meaning penumbral: not quite light, not quite dark.
Pixels—the smallest elements we can manipulate on a screen, millions of squares to make a whole, something seen by fledgling eyes. Silver halide was used to steal souls and store them in crystals. Paint was used to carve out human flesh.
Hungry, we devour. Cheery, cherry reds and keyed up oranges and oceanic blues and tropical kitsch, souvenir-colour palettes. The women hide behind their sunglasses, shielded, but also defined by the obstruction of their eyes—the window to the soul, the key to learning their identities. Playfully, they refuse to give us the wisdom we have come to expect from the aged and experienced, lest we brush them off.
