The day Trump became president I watched the inauguration on my laptop while editing a fashion story about butts.
The next day I walked down 5th Ave. breastfeeding my daughter. We were surrounded by thousands of other women. We were yelling.
The following 12 months would be punctuated by moments like this. A constant tug between the rhythm of motherhood and this serrated American moment.
The photography I love from this year occupies a similar space. These are images that wobble. Bodies fall, stretch, and are pressed against glass. Faces are obscured by leaves, hands, shadow, or viced by a bison jaw. A rose is on fire.
These are photos that feel like 2017 to me. A bit stuck. A bit free.