There is a tactile quality to her presence—the way the sun catches the stray threads of a wool sweater, the slight tilt of her head that suggests a secret just about to be shared. But at the corner of her jaw, the image begins to fray. A few pixels have strayed, humming with a static that feels like a whisper. It’s a reminder that every image is a ghost: a slice of a second preserved forever, while the real Alison has already walked out of the frame and into the next moment.
When you open it, the colors bleed at the edges, a soft lavender spill into a sharp, clinical white. It isn't a portrait so much as it is a collection of memories caught in a digital net. Alison isn’t looking at the camera; she’s looking through it, toward a horizon that the lens couldn’t quite capture. Alison image
To look at the image is to realize that we are all made of these fragments. We are the soft focus of a summer afternoon and the sharp, jagged edges of a winter morning. Alison remains still, a digital monument to a breath once taken, waiting for someone to hit refresh. There is a tactile quality to her presence—the