I’ve always been drawn to liminal spaces—especially that time of day just before dawn, a nethernight of not yet morning though no longer entirely night. It always feels as if the entire world is asleep, but for me.
This fascination dates to when I was thirteen years-old and delivering daily newspapers in northern California. Most pre-dawns found me huddled on a street corner in an otherworldly cocoon of light diligently folding and banding newspapers in the damp chill until my hands turned blue-black with ink and ache. Then pedaling neighborhoods I knew intimately by daylight, though suddenly, inexplicably, rendered eerily foreign in half-light. It was an especially charged time—marbled with a mix of fear and awe that still influences the way I see the world today.
Though I didn’t know it at the time, what I was feeling then was my first inklings of the adult world: freedom, that unique blend of self-sufficiency and uncertainty taking shape deep within me. I’m older now but this time is still charged for me. Out in a pre-dawn, familiar landscapes are no longer defined by borders, but by an echo of reinvention: anything is possible.
The Space Between explores less so what is seen, than what is felt.
