Sacalaia is the deepest freshwater lake in Transylvania; legend says it swallowed a Roman village, and that on clear days you can still see the basilica’s spire — and that divers who went down for it did not always return. I spent childhood summers on it with a Leica; the negatives sat undeveloped for three decades. The work holds two times at once — the boy who photographed without a plan, the man who came back to read what was there — and finds in the lake the children of my practice: a few swim to the top, while others are lost to the depths. Water is what we are around, what we are made of, what runs through us — the clearest image of the in-between, where one reading of the body ends and another begins. A life has its in-betweens too: the everything-and-anything between the hinges.
