MOON
As a Cancer, I find myself consistently drawn to the Moon—its presence, its cycles, and its quiet authority. Ruled not by a planet but by a shifting body of reflected light, it exists in a state of constant change while remaining fundamentally constant. It governs tides, modulates light, and seems to exert an unseen pull on emotion and perception.
What resonates most is not its visibility, but its persistence. The Moon is not always seen, yet it is always there—moving, influencing, marking time beyond our immediate awareness. Its phases suggest a rhythm of appearing and receding, of fullness and absence, without ever truly disappearing.
This rhythm parallels the way I experience memory and loss. What is gone does not vanish completely; it shifts, returns in fragments, reappears under different conditions of light and attention. Presence becomes something less fixed—something that can exist even in partial view.
In my work, the Moon operates less as a subject than as a condition. It informs the way I think about light, about cycles, and about the tension between what is visible and what remains just beyond perception. Like the moments I photograph, it resists permanence while quietly insisting on continuity.
