Begin. Again.

Begin. Again. is about the quiet expectation that women will start over, after birth, after loss, and do it gracefully, on cue, and without complaint. Resilience is praised the way service is praised. Warmly, and without anyone asking what it costs.

Begin. Again. is about the quiet expectation that women will start over, after birth, after loss, after a chapter is declared closed, and do it gracefully, on cue, and without complaint. This sequence follows that expectation through a life, from the perspective of a woman who is expected to carry it.

Resilience is praised the way service is praised. Warmly, and without anyone asking what it costs. The sequence opens with a bulb and a child’s reaching hand. Girlhood that already carries its own warnings, such as a shadow beside a girl at a chalk wall that could be guardian or stranger. It moves into the world’s instructions: FRAGILE, ONE WAY. Locks, empty chairs, a set table seen through glass. Out of reach. and burnt timber stand in for what a camera cannot show: the interior.

The sequence moves between warmth and exposure, between colour and its absence, the way a life moves between being felt and being seen. Roses that are blooming and fading in one frame, ripples spreading from a point of contact. Beginnings that carry their endings with them.

The moon appears twice. First it is boxed into a grid. Last, it hangs on a wire. A lifeline, thin, strung between poles but holding. Waiting for the next phase.