I set up a pop-up photo studio in my town — not because anyone asked, but because something in me wanted to catch people mid-life. Not staged, not styled — just seen.

At first, I just hung the prints on the wall downstairs from my apartment. Then more people showed up. Then more prints went up. And suddenly it had a feeling. A rhythm. A soul.

It started to look like a yearbook for the neighborhood — but without the prom committees or the signatures. Just faces. Beautiful, ordinary, specific faces. A record of who we were, together, without trying.

It’s become a tradition now.

But what it really is, is a kind of local memory.

A quiet argument against forgetting.