above our heads

The world gives us so much to grieve. This series is not a turning away from that, it's a counterweight to it. A practice of stopping, looking up, and remembering that beauty is still happening, constantly, whether or not we notice.

The sky has always been where I go to ground myself. When everything moves too fast, looking up slows me down. Above Our Heads comes from that instinct: an accumulation of skies as an act of gratitude, proof that appreciation is always available to us, free and unclaimed, if we simply raise our eyes.

The series moves between two states. Sunrise is solitude — the world still asleep. It's an intimate moment with the self: a space for appreciation, to be quietly alone with your own thoughts before the everything else starts. Sunset, in contrast, is communal — a gathering, a shared exhale, the moment people turn toward each other and share it together. One is intimate; the other is collective. But both are united by the same ephemeral beauty — a beauty that asks nothing of us but love, gratitude, tenderness.

What draws me to the sky, beyond its beauty, is its impartiality. It doesn't belong to anyone. It carries moods the way people do: stormy, tender, on fire, still — and it never holds still long enough to be owned. What's overhead now will be gone in minutes, replaced by something different. That impermanence is the point: the sky insists that you look now, because now is all there is. It's the most democratic form of wonder there is — anyone, anywhere, can access it by doing almost nothing at all.

This is why it matters. Not because it's beautiful, though it is, but because of what it makes us feel: gratitude, tenderness, love for the simple fact of being alive and having the ability to experience this.