
“What is a face, really? Its own photo? Its make-up? Or is it a face as painted by such or such painter? That which is in front? Inside? Behind? And the rest? Doesn't everyone look at himself in his own particular way?” Pablo Picasso On a bright summer’s day in 2009 in Manchester and the city was bustling with activity. I was out with my camera looking for moments, fractions of a second that are extraordinary: mining for the tiniest fraction of time that alludes to a story. The streets must be paved with such flashes of inferred meaning, thousands of moments more…


