This work comes from the time after my father lost his sight. Our conversations changed then—they became slower, more about listening than looking. I began to think about how memory works when vision is gone, and how color might carry what words can’t.



The blue in North East, Day 3 comes from that space between us. It isn’t sadness exactly—it’s more like recognition, a way of saying “I remember” without having to speak. Physically altering my camera became my way of understanding, impairment both for him and me; it became holding on to what was slipping away, a way of learning how to see through him.



This image marks an early turning point in this research, when light and memory began to merge, when I understood that even in darkness, perception continues to move and breathe after clarity fades.