Bonnie Briant

It's been a long time since I sat down and wrote about my pictures, wrote about anything in fact. I'd like to think I can blame it on the weather, but thats just a cheap scapegoat. I have done a lot of living, we all have.

It is the grass by the ocean, fogged by the clammy chill of the night in early fall.

It is us in the stairwell, breathless, laughing, wondering what happened to Peter, as we escape a drunken mess left in our wake. 

I find myself in them, here and there, They reflect back onto me, and really what we end up with is not a portrait of the what (or who) is on either side of the camera, but of the relationship between us. We send signals back and forth; the periodic eye contact, making sure we are still both there; or the quiet comfort of some, allowing me closer.

It is a scary thing to put that out in writing, to admit that I am knowingly sharing the things I hold most intimate, but those things are also the safety net that I know is there below, the place I trust in. 

It is Denis standing in the kitchen peeling an orange, he promised me if the peel remained unbroken I could make a wish.

It is the air between us and the moments afterwards. 

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