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​“They are lost only in the way things are said to be ‘lost’ in a fog. If we want, we can walk out and touch them like furniture in a dark room.”
— Norman Lock, Land of the Snow Men

Photographs often carry more than they depict. They can register traces of the time and place in which they were made, sometimes surfacing as much in color as in subject. In this series, color functions less as ornament than as evidence: fresh paint, safety markings, and a municipal palette that signal repair and revision, registering not only in the built environment but also on the people who move through it, even as these hues shape the pictures formally. These images are the result of a slow process of accrual, made while walking and photographing without a fixed subject in mind. Only in looking back did patterns begin to emerge, suggesting a broader field of forces largely outside the frame. The title refers to this ongoing process of recognition, the way meaning seems to surface over time, first in the act of photographing and later when bringing the pictures together. The question that lingers is one central to photography itself: is meaning already present in the world, caught the moment it enters the frame, or does it arise after the fact, through the ways we group and interpret what we have gathered?