Edging, GA is both the creation and documentation of a place that doesn’t really exist. Eternal stillness keeps it separate from reality, but inside the stillness challenges are presented, obstacles confronted, hearts ache, things get old; it’s of this world, but filed down to a smooth bevel. Edging isn’t fantasy—it looks tangible from far away, but disappears as soon as you get close. It’s one of the many fictions of pages, screens and songs that are arguably all based on true stories but never meant to be within reach; by the time you got there it would be dirty, you would be tired, and you still couldn’t touch your shadow.
Longing, loneliness, and the desire to fill our holes and gaps and close our distances is one of the most compelling forces in life and the feeling of edging towards the fulfillment of your desire is often better than the fulfillment itself—that is assuming fulfillment itself is even possible. I don’t know if the people in my pictures are the ones who have made themselves comfortable and warm in these feelings or if they are the ones who are just as scared of them as I am. Maybe they’re the ones who also don’t know exactly what to call it, and also use “lonely” or some other inadequate descriptor to give it a name. Maybe, though, there is no word, and I’m getting closer to being or finding a person who isn’t searching for it.