Black and White is undying. Timeless. A sort of unknown nostalgia that my fingertips grasp at. I'm young, so perhaps that's where it comes from. A feeling that emerged ever so slowly from...
...somewhere. Perhaps from the depths of a history I will never know. From people I have seen while grazing over dusty, stuck-together photographs sitting in old cardboard boxes crumpling under the weight of whatever sits on top. Perhaps it is time crumpling the box... Moisture, that finds a way. Like the dust, like the cobwebs long deserted and likely themselves even dust coated. 

These images, when printed, feel differently in my hands. They feel like an ambiguous time. The past? Of course. But how long? There's an urge of curiosity and wonder to know more, to scrape my brain, no, the Universe for answers. But this may be it. The only evidence of someone's existence; fossilized on paper. A name and date scribbled on the back... or maybe not. I may know the face, or place, staring back at me. I may not. But everything in this printed world is in Black and White.

This strange world I've visited over and over, like Alice to Wonderland, is seemingly colorless at first. Yet the more I visit, the more I look and fall into it, the more I feel... ...that perhaps this world of Black and White is more dynamic and alive than the one of Alice and I. 

Our world...the one many consider vibrant, is not perceived equally. Where one sees a blue sky, another just sees: gray. But if what we all see is Black and White from the beginning, then, during that moment, we see the same sky. 

Why?

A vivid, living world photographed in Black and White, is a strange world. Wonderfully strange. And it's a world I visit often.

B&W Portraits