Photography is voyeurism by nature. I am not exempt, my photographs are here too. The access given to this group is personal, emotional, internal voyeurism. Secretly reading someone’s diary without consent, a violation they aren't privy to. Groups of people rummaging through the very lives of people who appear to have just up and left. We shouldn't know these people like this, I shouldn't know what I do. What do you know of these people except for the narrative I paint with my pictures? What do I do as I am directed by a man who parks a baby blue Porsche outside to look into the lives of people who are others, a man who views the unhoused as a separate entity from “normal people.” Am I to aim my lens at the remnants of preparing the next hit, at one of the few remaining syringes, is an addict anything more than a junkie under the eyes of these observers? As I walk through these rooms waiting for a call back from a rehab does that save me from the same judgments being laid upon them?

I have yet to know a single answer to any of these questions ruminating in my head. But I know people that lived within these walls deserve a moment of peace, stillness.