A series of recollections about the Why behind the photo. The fragments and questions that come with it. All at once or one after the other. The story seeds that follow before and after the photograph is made.
There is a certain mystery surrounding mannequins. It's there every time I'm near them, a secret life they live and we, oblivious, just pass them by. Replicas used to display, they are in fact observers, witnesses of our world.
The eight above, I wonder what is it they've lost; that empty space above their chest. Is that the reason for their contempt?
And as I make their portrait an unsettling thought takes shape - what if they know I know?