Suspended

Photography is a strange act. The camera captures any situation and looks at it from any possible angle, disrupting our perception of how things are supposed to be. In the photograph, the feet point upward. They rest on a bed, yet they seem to float in midair—a result of the camera’s chosen point of view. The picture is horizonless, and in this absence of a horizon, we find ourselves suspended between above and below, between foreground and background.

More than the patterned socks or the decorative pants, my eyes are drawn to the simple wrinkles of the bed sheet—creases that stretch outward from the center and crawl toward the dark corners of the image. Beyond those corners, one might imagine the head and body these feet belong to—and wonder how that person is doing.