Susan Sontag once said that photographs aren’t really tools of memory, they’re inventions of it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
 
When I made this image, I wasn’t trying to document anything specific. I just stood there, watching the light bounce off the glass, the figure blurring into shadow, the window folding into itself. It felt like a moment I’d already forgotten, or maybe one that never quite happened.
 
The photograph doesn’t tell me who she is, or even if she was truly there. But somehow, it holds a truth, an emotional residue. A trace of presence. A reflection that feels more like memory than fact.
 
This isn’t about remembering clearly. It’s about the way memory distorts, softens, and sometimes creates its own reality. In that sense, I think Sontag was right: photography doesn’t help us remember. It helps us imagine what remembering feels like.