Two by two

I don’t write about my photographs to tell people what they should see in them. An image doesn’t need a written explanation to make itself understood. For me, though, taking a photograph and writing about it are inseparable parts of the same experience. The camera captures what was there in front of me. The writing comes later, shaped by everything that stayed with me long after I put the camera down.

Pairs define this photograph. Two Paralympic athletes have stopped to talk. One is explaining something; the other is listening. It’s a quiet exchange, a moment of one person passing on what they know to another. Nothing is staged, and neither athlete is turned into a spectacle.

Up in the stands, two women sit side by side. They are another pair, but their role is different. They’re not taking part in the activity; they’re watching from a distance. The photograph brings these four people together without making their experiences interchangeable. Some are involved in the action, others are following it. Between them, a sense of connection emerges through the simple act of sharing the same moment.

Five minutes later, the stands were packed. I couldn’t say what brought so many people there so quickly, and there’s no reason to make up an explanation. Whatever was happening on the court had caught people’s attention. What began as an exchange between two athletes had drawn in an audience.

Perhaps that’s one of photography’s most compelling possibilities: holding on to the moment when something experienced by a few begins to resonate with many. I’ve carried that sense of connection with me ever since I took this photograph.