I’ve been looking through my photo archives from some years back, and I notice that the sea is a reccuring fixation. It makes me feel both in awe and at ease. I want to penetrate its surface and dematerialize, but also shut my eyes, imagine its absence. Some of my most cosmic junctures has transpired with salt prickling on my skin, stinging my orbs, pulling me back and forth, up and down. Once, I lost my favourite sun glasses to the sea while swallowing the force, almost drowned, came up transparent. I’ve listened: a silent bystander, dived in both warm, cold, alive, blind—embraced, imitated, dominated, seducted. Once, by the sea in Eastbourne, I encountered a cold rainy storm and angry waves (along with an angry woman down at the pier, who probably did not want to be documented by an obsessive stranger with a flash snapshot camera.) I normally like to leave people to themselves. At the same time, I have a tendency to take the shape, or likeness of a detective. Evidence of life need to be witnessed, collected, formed, perhaps sometimes even understood, or solved. However, I have still not been able to fully grasp the role of the sea, nor the human, especially the two of them side by side.