I remember a bride and a groom, not distinctly clear figures but rather silhouettes. That day I was in Manhattan, near Central Park with my family. The day was that of a breezy, summer afternoon and a bride and groom were being photographed by a birch tree. She was of Asian descent, standing against the tree, her veil covering her vulnerable eyes, like a shield that protects the innocent.
Even then at 16, I knew that I preferred the comfort of my t-shirt and jeans over that long, torturous, puffy gown. A gown that mopped the ground and with it, picked up tiny pieces of grass and dirt particles along the way. A gown that fit her small body so perfectly that no one, not even the skilled photographer could re-define, re-invent, reshape. A gown that was too pure, too refined in elegance to surmount.
I watched that angelic figure from a far and focused my own lens on her as the photographer did with his. Her mystery and obscurity was captivating, but only for the moment in which I shot the picture. Beyond that lens, she meant nothing to me; she was just a figure, a silhouette in a white gown. And I…
I would never be a bride.