Words I know not, nor how and where this viewfinder frame might have begun to expand; its clear-cut margin remains intact – thirty-six centimeter squares – in the viewer. Twelve shots, three times; four, at most five. At every shot the vision goes “black” until when the specular presence, turned upside down in the mirror, expands and at once leaves the margin of what “is seen” and rests also within an intention. And it both views itself and traverses the space of air suspended between that view and the one of the on-looker. But here, and in contrast to the pupil that envelopes and renders to the on-looker its own reflected glance, my subject to see itself needs to look within, for my eyes are now veiled behind the black camera. It is an instant. It flits away, rests and already too much has been seen.