On the bar terrace — Paris

Everyone is looking elsewhere. The man in the foreground sinks into his phone, the couple at the back lean toward each other, and she, at the exact centre of the frame, turns around — lips parted, a hand drawn to her chest, her gaze pulled out of the picture by something we will never see. That off-frame is what holds the photograph: an ordinary Paris terrace, small round tables and a glass of wine, suddenly crossed by a worry she alone carries. The black and white strips away the anecdote; what remains is the instant suspended between alarm and its denial.