I connect with Frédéric and Misun in two very different ways.

With Frédéric, we relate through our emotions, our drive, and the need to express ourselves. We also have a tendency to feel like outsiders, perhaps because we’re often judged or misunderstood. In this way we comfort each other, because it’s as if we feel less odd or alone.

Misun, on the other hand, is like my big sister. She cares about me, takes an interest in what I do, and gives me advice the way I imagine a sibling does. I can share my insecurities, my dreams, my feelings with her, as if I’ve known her my entire life.

Together, they encourage and support me, although never to the point of flattery. In this way, I know that I can trust them to be honest; something increasingly rare nowadays, as people hide behind smiles and empty words. When I’m with them, I feel like I’m wholly understood and accepted.

I always leave their house with a tremendous sense of hope, because they believe in me the way no one else ever has.

After my Perishable Press interview, and having Version 10 featured in a Crestock article titled “13 Minimalist Designs You Really Should See”, this site has seen a surge in design-related traffic. But increased exposure is a double-edged sword. Higher profile sites make you a bigger target for security issues, spam, and design robbery.

Such as the case with eric-akmal.com.

Does this look familiar?

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The crooked become straight
The empty become full
The worn become new
Have little and gain much
Have much and be confused
So the Sage embraces the One and becomes a model for the world

—Verse 22, Tao Te Ching

Yesterday, I woke up from a nap at four in the afternoon. Usually, when I wake up from a long nap, I feel groggy and uneasy, but this time I was bright and rested.

When I went outside, the rain had stopped. It washed the bird poop off my windshield, it filled the air with the lingering scent of cleanliness. In my car, Becky started singing in the stereo.

And every time she hit me with the words “cavalry of light” in her wavering vibrato, I had to sing at the top of my lungs along with her, my voice cracking, my dignity left behind me.

This morning, I was running late for work. But by the time I got to the car, the sun had been out long enough to warm the breeze. I could roll the windows down and let the air in. The traffic made me even more late, but it let me take my time too. It gave me the chance to enjoy Lenny crooning to me about how true love leaves no traces.

It’s like I’m waiting for something to go wrong, because I’m not used to things going this well. But nothing’s going wrong. Things are be working out. Everything has a reason, no matter how small or trivial.

Taoist theory says that surrender brings perfection. Don’t force anything. Allow things to happen, and they’ll naturally balance out. Perhaps I’m finally believing this, instead of simply understanding it.

When things are going badly, you’re not really behind.

You’re just waiting for the good that wouldn’t be possible otherwise.

Some more practice with photographing couples. Ellen and Ziny are both med students who used to be roommates. They happened to be in Ottawa at the same time for internships at different hospitals, so it was the perfect opportunity to get them both together for a few shots.

Getting black hair and clothes to show up against a black background is very tricky. I suspect darker textures need their own dedicated light source to increase the exposure.

The woman I’ve been looking for my entire life.

Her name was Christine. She was thin lipped. Frail limbed. Not the least bit camera shy, as she pulled her shirt up to expose a breast, like she had fallen on the grass this way and the folds in her clothes rearranged themselves on her body.

Here she is on a horse in the night. Here she is, grim-faced, cradling her son. There was a scar on her neck from a suicide attempt years earlier, and through a series of photographs, you could see the scar heal.

For seven years she was married, before she successfully jumped to her death from the 9th floor of an apartment in East Berlin.

This is someone who understood his art, his morbidity, his need to capture her suicide in a frame, then publish the image of her body on the pavement, looking down from the 9th floor, along with insouciant pictures of a teacup, a playground, a tank, three plants.

And as soon as I had found her, she’s gone.

Should I be happy that she existed? Should I be sad that she’s gone? Should I be punished for comparing the women I’ve had to her?

Is this painful, or beautiful, or both?