Leslie Twitchell

Until recently, my presence was a sharp, defined thing—a performance of visibility held in place by everyone else’s gaze. I lived in a state of passive compliance, trying to be the “finished product” the world expected. Now, I am happily losing my grip on all of that.

I am finding a “what’s next?” kind of humor in the sheer absurdity of aging. I’ve traded the polished version of myself for the comedic reality of a shifting silhouette. It turns out there is a defiant kind of gratitude in being a little bit ridiculous; my permission to finally occupy space without apology.

These images aren’t a record of me fading away. They capture the specific, shimmering quality of an aging that feels more like an expansion than a fading. I am finally trading the pressure of being seen for the sheer hilarity of being known.