What am I looking for when I photograph. What frames itself instantly. The sole, the lone, the isolated figure or object. & then patterns, repeating lines, shapes, curves. They make the world distinct for me & evoke. Colours sometimes. And then too moodiness. The clouds, watery reflections. Things not bright or populous or random. What my eye hungers for is the chance moment within its receivable context, the agony within the bearable, kin to Roland Barthes’ notion of the punctum: “The punctum (a Latin word derived from the Greek word for trauma)…inspires an intensely private meaning, one that is suddenly, unexpectedly recognized and consequently remembered (it “shoots out of [the photograph] like an arrow and pierces me”); it ‘escapes’ language (like Lacan’s real); it is not easily communicable through/with language. The punctum is ‘historical’ as an experience of the irrefutable indexicality of the photograph (its contingency upon a referent). The punctum is a detail or “partial object” that attracts and holds the viewer’s (the Spectator’s) gaze; it pricks or wounds the observer.” Something that hurts me into gasping, sighing, crying out, leaving me wanting to claim its entry point while always it sinks deeper or, eternally, flees.