There is something special about being invited to someone’s birthday party. On the one hand, they thought of you. They thought their day, this only special day each year set out specifically for them, would be better for your being there.

Someone takes out their camera and points it at you. Whatever you were doing, you stop. The lens commands your body, contorting it into a position—your spine, your shoulders, the muscles of your face—totally aware of itself.

We were only there for three days and it was rain. A pest rain that didn’t empty the streets but left people hiding under awnings, lingering in shopfronts, so focused on staying dry they didn’t notice you standing right there.

What makes a good street photograph? I don’t know. But I do know that you know it when you see it. I’m attracted to many kinds of photographs: many styles, eras, places, people. It’s hard to think too much about. Everything gets fuzzy.

When you’re in a museum like The Met, it’s hard to focus on one thing. Centuries and cultures spill over from room to room—you constantly have to reorient yourself to see the dark spaces and invisible lives between each work.

It was my birthday, so we drove six hours to Ithaca, a place I’d never been, for hiking, drinks, food, and to get away from our lives. It was the start of the semester at Cornell, but we didn’t see many students.

We were there for a birthday party. As soon as we got to Rockaway Beach, the air felt thick, electric, uncomfortable. There was food spread out on the picnic table, people playing lawn sports.