I don’t remember learning to read. I don’t remember not dreaming in color. I probably don’t remember your name. Many people would say they don’t remember that moment, that epiphany of learning to read, but I don’t have many clear memories, especially before fifth grade. I have vivid recollections of colors, objects, and emotions, but in most cases the context is skewed—abstracted by the noise of intermingling and conflicting visions. I have built what I consider clear memories around photographs, but they are nothing more than abstractions. When I look at them, I have flashes of completely unrelated moments—perhaps involving that person, that place, that object. This is how I frame my memories: through an overlapping congestion of random visual moments and emotions. I have discovered that my fascination with photography stems from my difficulties with memory, especially my short-term and working memory… my dyslexia. A memory is a measurement of time, and the inevitable abstractions created by such a measure amplify a resonant noise of overlapping moments. This body of work attempts to represent the transition of memory from thought to thought and investigates an abstraction of the image by deconstruction through addition—a kind of photomontage. This photomontage, in the ideas of the gaze within, the gaze created by, and the gaze of the image itself, is an overt exaggeration of the complexity of information, of interference, and of noise produced within this intersection and interplay of image, memory, and prophecy. My subject is photography; my subject is myself; my subject is fiction; my subject is memory.