Creating work has always been about recording. Recording moments, recording feelings, recording people. Photography exists in the world as a factual representation of whatever the camera is pointing out, despite it existing because of a subjective creator. No matter what I photographed, the world didn’t seem as factual as I wanted it to be, people not as factual as I wanted them to be. I constantly wrestle with making a photograph that reflects how something makes me feel, how a space exists in my head. I felt at a loss — what was supposed to be the most factual way of creating seemed to glaze over something that was boiling at the surface (which is what I want to photograph). I started writing, not necessarily with any intent, but as a way to record where my headspace was and hopefully by the end of it get it into a (usually) more positive space. What I wrote was never meant to be seen by anyone else, until I realized that when I wrote, I clearly articulated what my photographs could never say. TWO HANDS OPEN, ONE EYE SHUT began with me frantically aligning the two, realizing the power the two had together, separately, and existing within the confines of a body of work. Because accuracy was vital, I used photographs and writings only from within a certain timeline, by the end spanning across a year; because of this restriction, the work became a timeline of events and realizations. All work I create exists as a form of catharsis. Order, page breaks, spacing, transparency (both literal and metaphorical), color, and image pairing all became integral parts of the project because above all, I needed a space that was my reality — everything I saw in my dreams, everything I felt screaming in my car, every nail I made bleed from anxiety, every word that I heard that repeated over, and over, and over in my head.