You are looking at the surface of a weathered table. It sits on the porch of a 1930s cabin in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts. On a perfect day, the sun breaks through the trees and mixes with reflected light from the lake, transforming this screened space into a camera obscura.
I assemble the glass, wood and metal elements and project ephemeral images that race from west to east at planetary speed. I snap at them like a cat after a laser point.
It is only later that I come to understand that these images, like all of my photographs, are found, remembered, imagined, innate—my DNA and experience projected.
the mirage of an evening carnival in Wisconsin,
the heat of the red-light district of Bombay,
growing up one generation after the Holocaust,
learning to fear radiation from under a desk,
the cool, dark interior of a cathedral in Cuzco.
the winter moths at my window,
the passion for light,
the owning of my story,
the love of my family,
my waking dreams. – Cary Wolinsky