Above the sofa in our living room, there is a framed print of As If for the First Time. I do not set aside a particular time to look at it. It is simply there as we move through the day, and every so often I notice it. Sometimes it brings back memories of being at Lake Bled. Sometimes my attention goes to the boats heading towards the little church, or to the reflection on the water. On other days I stay with the image longer and notice its details. My mind wanders, and I enjoy the distraction. The photograph makes room for all of these encounters, even when they last only a few seconds. As If for the First Time in my living room. Why an image stays with us At first, a photograph may catch our eye because of its colour or the character it brings to a space. There are many things I value in this one: the beauty of the moment, the composition, the colours and tones, and the movement across the water. The boats have a destination. That small action gives the scene another layer for me, beyond its appearance. The story of the place and my experience of making the photograph connect those elements. That connection is why I wanted to print it and why I continue to welcome it into my everyday life. Someone encountering the image for the first time may be drawn to entirely different details. They do not need to know my story to begin forming their own relationship with it. A print has a physical presence. We choose where to place it and what it will live alongside. It can add colour and character, then gradually become familiar, part of the setting in which we rest, talk, read, or spend time together. The objects around it might stay the same, but life in that space does not. We add memories there, and the space becomes more personal because of what has happened within it. What changes over time I have other photographs that I made when I was single. They belonged to a different period of my life, with different goals, priorities, and challenges. When I began living with my spouse, I brought those photographs with me. They have moved with us from place to place, still in the same frames. They can bring me back to the person I was when I made them, but they also hold what has happened since: the moves, the shared experiences, and what I have learned along the way. I see them differently now. The change is not in how I judge them as a photographer. It is in the connections they have gathered by being present through more of my life. This is something I could not have assigned to those images at the beginning. A photograph can preserve a moment, yet its meaning need not be fixed to that moment. As we return to it, we bring more of ourselves than we did before. An open invitation That is part of what I hope a physical photograph can become in someone’s space. It does not ask for constant attention or for a profound response each time we pass it. It can offer a welcome pause: a second, a few seconds, a minute, or longer. We might remember, observe something new, enjoy its beauty, or simply let our thoughts go somewhere else. What happens during that pause will be personal. To me, that openness is one of the beautiful things about a photograph. The invitation remains there for anyone willing to receive it, and each return can be different.
