There’s something slippery about music. It only exists in the moment you hear it: a note played, a voice lifted, a melody passing through the air and then disappearing. You can't just press pause and hold onto it the way you can with a photograph or a painting. Sure, you can replay a song, but the moment has already moved on.
And yet, here is a photograph of music.
I shot this years ago for an editorial piece about music and the internet. Even then, I knew the image wasn’t just about that assignment. It’s stayed with me, never quite settling into one story. It’s bold and powerful, and there’s something elusive about it that keeps bringing me back.
The image gives us only a glimpse: the curve of her chin, her lips slightly parted, caught mid-note—or maybe mid-breath. The microphone in front of her, with its vintage curves, feels like it belongs to another era. The electric pink background feels unmistakably modern. Pop music, maybe. But there’s something in her expression that hints at something deeper.
I’ve never been able to give this image a title. Maybe it doesn’t need one. Like music, it’s hard to pin down. Sometimes, what we can’t hear is just as powerful as what we can.