I realize that fog might be an odd thing to love, since most people seem to think of it as a weather inconvenience, a hindrance to an otherwise lovely day. But not me.
There’s just something mystical about fog. It’s secretive, deceptive, mysterious. It mandates myopia, immediacy. It asks questions, yields few answers, and I love that dynamic in photographs. The narrative always starts clearly enough but fades with distance, dissolving into shapes, discolorations, suggestions of form, eventually becoming gray nothingness.