I call fog something bound to my personal reality, that from time to time settles into my seeing, thinking and engaging with myself, other things and people. The term falters, admittedly, as what I describe has little to do with an obstacle lodged between myself and my surroundings. However, making it into object and subject helps me believe it is something, that could belong elsewhere. The term also holds however, in that fog suggests broader knowledge of what is looked at; some expectation of clarity that is being withheld or momentarily suspended.
Fog is also a meteorological phenomenon, the whimsical conduct of which we take as blameless, responding to its activities with only a loose, resigned welcome. So it goes with my own.
There’s a texture that my fog is always loyal to. It is consistent but not uniform. At times I find it betrays distances, flattens my field of vision, placing everything at a uniform cloudy orbit, just beyond reach. It clouds remoteness and nearness, both seen and felt, cheating my sense of perspective, lending all visible things at once the same anxious urgency and obliviousness to my bravest attempts at engaging. It is an expression of friction within my knowable reality’s barest fabric. Its actions are such that it takes more energy to tell things apart, also an aesthetic appeal. It is semantic. The clear path to oblivion it lays comes paved with the sedimentary sense of inertia that the idea of discerning reality takes on.

I tried countless times to think, in vain, what my fog replaces when it settles in. There’s nothing to grieve at its arrival, but a vacant space I would have had overlooked when taking account of who I am. So for me, my fog, settling and setting, will always be a token of how little, of what I’m made up of, will ever be accessible to my thinking self. Things, shaping me so intimately, that I can only catch glimpses of behind rooted fences – How limited my domain of self awareness will always be: an expression of fog in itself.
My fog doesn’t only affect my perception of space. It also imposes its own rhythm and rules of engagement with reality. It splits my position, between the anxious self reproaching time lost missing out on a clearer truth, and the rest of myself, resigned to the beauty of pictures. 

There is a beauty to behold in my fog’s internal order. The camera is the perfect tool to capture this appeal. Curating an impression of a personal reality is something photography lends itself to exceptionally well. Showing and concealing, directing focus, defining objects only in relation to one another, and confining an outlook in personal fragments.
This body of work is my effort taking ownership of this otherwise automated phenomenon by exposing it. I evoke my fog at will, asserting some temporary power, there where, the clarity I feel, I find deceiving.

Clouds staring at the sky.

the fog is such,
that no one can see,
my invisible fortress.

New York, 2019
W [ varies ] cm x H 120 cm, C-print on smooth cotton