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Short Brown Grass

      I have lived for three years now in Savannah, Georgia, where there is much injustice, but also plenty of beauty. I believe photography is the best tool we have to define the unquantifiable, and I have used it here to better understand the particular incalculable subtleties of this place – specifically, the deep torpor of a place steeped in the southern tradition of slowness. A place where power, resources, and the built landscape sit for hours, weeks, and years on a damp cushion of deliberate indolence.

      It is beautiful, in the way that slow-motion dreams are beautiful; you get to see what happens between moments – every sparkling drop, every shifting leaf, and every day that seems to be made only of one long, arcing sunrise and sunset with no harsh noon in the middle. But in those dreams, where you can’t move any faster, sometimes there is something terrifying that is behind you and should be much further behind you but at the rate you’re going you realize that it isn’t very far away at all, and is in fact going to catch up with you if you don’t wake up right now.

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