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  • As a child, I was a window watcher.

    During evening walks, I'd learn ceilings and light fixtures, the shapes of art, the dance of shadows. From hotels I'd study the choreography of workers across the way, solo and in groups, hunched over desks, slouched around tables, striding through offices. From apartments in Rome, my ears watched the same soap opera, the same clink of cutlery against china, the same modulations of voice drifting from a dozen other open windows dotting the internal courtyard. On drives through neighborhoods, I'd snatch kitchens, televisions, people sitting on overstuffed sofas, this and that passing through the frame.

    Sometimes my own reflection walked by me. Sometimes it stared.
    Sometimes I'd wander outside my own house and look in as though I were a stranger passing by.
    Sometimes I'd stand inside at my window and look out as though there meant not here.

    Things happening. Or not. Clues. Or not.

    As a young woman, I started taking photographs of windows, through windows, moving windows, still windows, reflected windows. Any windows. All.

    Small birds throw themselves at glass windows.
    They contain only so much--a glimpse, a moment, a possibility. Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough.

    And now? Now, I have dropped glass altogether. I haunt living windows, shifting and crumbling and becoming and forgetting and making and unmaking. Windows as homes. Windows as doors. Windows as barriers.

    Windows as signs, as beacons, as shards. Windows to maybe.
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