I met David Byrne —frontman of Talking Heads— on a street in New York a week before everything stopped.

He was unlocking his bike outside the Spring/Break Art Show. We spoke for a minute or two. He said he liked the fair. I mentioned Superfine—the art fair I co-founded. He said he wanted to come.

Mount Shasta has a reputation. People travel there, quite seriously, because they believe there are openings in the mountain—thresholds, access points, something just out of sight but not entirely out of reach. The locals tend to be more conservative. The visitors tend to speak as if they’ve just returned from a very meaningful conversation with a rock. The mountain, for its part, offers no clarification.

The photograph shouldn’t have worked.

Wrong day. Wrong light.

It was a grey day at Black’s Beach. A low ceiling of cloud pressing everything flat into a dull, even wash.

There are seasons when the world becomes distant, as if it has stepped slightly away from itself.

I wanted to photograph that feeling.

There is a field in Brooklyn Bridge Park that fills with yellow flowers at the very end of summer. If you stand there long enough, Manhattan begins to dissolve across the water. It feels like a mistake—like a piece of countryside briefly misplaced inside New York.