DeAnn Caldwell

Every few days there’s another rumor, another boycott, another crowd gathering with pitchforks before anyone has bothered to check whether the village actually has a monster.

I want the hand that wasn’t posed perfectly because there was something honest in the way she held it. The blurred frame. The blown highlight. The expression between expressions. The image that may never win a technical argument but could ruin somebody emotionally in under three seconds. That is the shit I love. And maybe it isn’t even a return to something I stopped creating. Maybe it is permission to stop apologizing for the part of my work that has always wanted to go there.

Without the camera, it almost sounds like some strange private encounter with a lover you do not fully know yet. Nervous. Vulnerable. Curious. A little turned on by the moment, and I do not mean sexually. I mean activated. Captivated by what might happen next.