Along the West Wind Drift whatever versions of reality exist might be frozen on the ice sheets, seconds, hours, months…eons. Time goes rigid. Except for the passing of ships and the sliding wind nothing changes or moves in the blue of perfect ice. In warmer climes, dotted with colors, broken into fragments, time gathers its denominations on tree lined streets, behind fences, in houses, in rooms, under stairs, to be released in the daily pattern, the ebb and flow of tides and traffic, in rhythms of heartbeat and breath. Somehow we know a unity in the piecemeal of time’s strobe effect, flashes of black and white on a darkroom wall gather into this fabric of pictures. Not the frozen blue confection, but tenuous connections, finding their way through the light and dark patches that separate us one from another.