A Camera Glued to my hands

Growing up in the theater, you could usually find me—six years old—hovering near the lighting board or the sound booth. If there was a camera, a keyboard, a switch of any kind, I’d be there, turning it over in my hands, figuring it out. Disposable cameras at camp. Game Boy Camera. Pokémon Snap. Video cameras, webcams, the earliest phone cameras. I loved them all.

From the wings. From the back of a golf cart behind a festival stage. Perched on road cases. Shoulder to shoulder on a dance floor. I keep finding myself close to the arts—close to people—watching the contrasts, trying to understand what’s happening between us.