details from reality that betray the carefully staged set, and ground the images in the push and pull between performance and authenticity. We see details and habits revealed to us, captured in the fraction of a second the picture was taken in. ​ What makes Lee’s photographs so compelling is that they point to the infinite other moments that aren’t captured by the camera. We see a sliver of who this woman is in a fraction of a second—and behind the photograph hides a vast sea of other moments, unknown and opaque to us.

That gaze is a monolithic one: it’s the mass of readers I am potentially failing by writing something pretentious, boring and not worth their time. Everyone is watching! It had better be good! It's is the gaze that says: You can't write unless you're describing everything in the cellar. ​ And most of all, letters make me feel like I am reading things that were written to me and for me alone. And that's my favorite feeling in the world. ​ So maybe the privacy I’m talking about really is just trust, and the ability to write to someone you know will still love you despite your writing. ​ —I’m talking about a friend who loves you enough to edit your writing.

“I think that the opposite is true too—the writing should be able to exist alongside the image without being redundant. Writing simple summary or description of what is in the picture is not enough. To attempt and recreate what the photo is already doing is a fool’s errand because describing the contents of a picture can never compete with or replace the actual visual thing. The best we can do is try to translate what the pictures make us feel, and try and understand why they affect us in the way they do.”