My time in Florence was lonely. Most days were spent moving quietly with my camera in hand. If I could not participate in connection, I could at least observe it, consume it. What I was left with were faces. Proudly, like an anthropologist, I collected people -- expressions, nuances, moments -- all existing inside of camera -- ready to be revisited, frozen for my delight. I took pleasure in my stealthiness, my perceived peculiarity, the isolating of my body from my eye. I was not a person, merely a lens, an invisible chronicler. 

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Still, I was searching, aimlessly, relentlessly, for a shadow to reveal itself after the photo was captured. A face that I could see into -- no, a face that could see into me. Something, someone, I could look at on a quiet night that looked at me back. I hadn't thought I'd found it. I went home brokenhearted. It's been a year.

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A year ago today, I was taking the photos that whisper to me now. A year ago today I sat, staring at the computer screen eating takeout bolognese and drinking cheap wine, searching. A year ago I waited for a truth that wouldn't come. 

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