A Blurred Gaze

This photograph is blurred, as if the photographer’s hand had trembled—but perhaps it’s the soft, penetrating eyes that have quivered and blinked, or the head that has shifted. Even the hand reaching in from outside seems startled. This blur, this fear, and the dimly lit room unsettle me; as if they’re asking me not to stay. And yet, I find the gaze and these hands so moving that I try to see it differently—or read it differently.

A hand has come to caress, or a hand has come to close her eyes. A hand has come to hold her, to grasp her hands—or perhaps to pull them apart. These “ors,” these conjunctions—only through the photograph—can push me toward this one or that one. And in the end, they hold me in front of the image for a long time, whether unsettled or calm.