Together we make the photograph, you and I. With my camera, my eye, my mind, your body, your eyes, your face and disposition, your movements, your location, your history, my history. . . we are forever joined on coated celluloid. A photograph is like embossed stationary. While you can write over the top, something of the original form, the textured form, always remains. I notice something different each time: a bird in the background, a man starring through the foundation of an old statue, the gait of an angry individual coming towards me. . . yet through it all the texture, the tiny particles of silver burned by reflection of the sun remain exactly as they had been all this time. Or do they? Where is the line between the object and the subject's interpretation of the object drawn? Will my photographs always mean as much to me as they do now? What role do you play?