On the day she found an old carnival mirror leaning against a dusty alley wall, she took a single photograph of herself reflected in it. The image turned out warped, fractured - her body halved by the frame, arms echoing into soft abstraction.
2025.04.25
珍擁有一種奇特的天賦——她能感受到一個時刻的心跳。不只是比喻，而是真實地從掌心裡感覺到它跳動，尤其當她握著相機的時候。朋友們叫她「時刻捕手」，儘管他們從未真正理解當她低聲說出「這一秒……是金色的」時的意思。她並不是傳統意義上的攝影師。她的相機並非為了清晰或名聲，而是一種盛裝情感的容器。在擁擠的房間或寂靜的角落，珍舉起鏡頭，總能捕捉到不只是場景，而是藏在微笑背後顫抖的喜悅、手勢間低語的疑慮，或是斜眼一瞥中雷鳴般的愛意。她的照片總是模糊的，常被偶然的反射或玻璃層遮蔽。但對珍來說，真實就藏在那扭曲與半隱之中。某天，她在一條佈滿灰塵的小巷中，發現一面老舊的嘉年華鏡。她拍下了自己映照在鏡中的樣子。照片洗出來後扭曲破碎——她的身影被鏡框切割，雙臂在柔和的抽象中回響。但當她看著這張照片時，心中泛起一絲悸動。在她自己的影像後方，有兩隻手伸了出來——不是她的，也不是她記得那天見過的任何人。
「記憶並不總是屬於我們自己，」她輕聲說著，將照片釘在工作室牆上。
從那天起，珍不再追尋完美的時刻。她讓時刻自己來找她——如鬼魅、如褪色，又像老膠卷中的溫柔光芒。她的影像檔案不再是時間的紀錄，而是一片片情感的星座。
而在每一張照片裡，只要你看得夠久，總會有些什麼——某個誰——隱約存在。一道閃光。一口氣息。
一個心跳。
被珍捕捉。
Jane had a peculiar gift—she could feel the exact heartbeat of a moment. Not metaphorically, but truly feel it pulsing through her palms, especially when she held her camera. Her friends called her "The Moment Catcher," though they never quite understood what she meant when she whispered, “This second… it’s golden.”
She wasn’t a photographer in the traditional sense. Her camera wasn’t about clarity or fame—it was a vessel for emotions. In crowded rooms or silent corners, Jane would raise her lens and somehow capture not just the scene, but the trembling joy behind a smile, the whisper of doubt behind a hand gesture, the thunderous love behind a sideways glance. Her photos always came out blurred, often bisected by accidental reflections or unseen layers of glass. But to Jane, that was where truth lived—in the distortion, in the half-hidden stories.
On the day she found an old carnival mirror leaning against a dusty alley wall, she took a single photograph of herself reflected in it. The image turned out warped, fractured—her body halved by the frame, arms echoing into soft abstraction. But when she developed the print, something stirred in her. Behind her own image, two other hands seemed to reach out—not hers, not anyone she remembered seeing that day.
“Memory doesn’t always belong to us alone,” she whispered, and pinned the photo on her studio wall.
From then on, Jane no longer hunted the perfect moment. She let the moments find her—ghosted, faded, glowing softly like warmth through old film. Her archive became not a record of time, but a constellation of feelings.
And in every image, if you looked long enough, there was always something—someone—just beyond recognition. A flicker. A breath.
A heartbeat.
Caught by Jane.
