Tatsiana Tarasava

When my children were small I photographed them constantly. Not the birthdays. The hour before dinner. The look that is gone if you turn away.

That same watching turned toward the animals who live here. A father owl flying in with food for six. A mother fox raising kits in a storm drain. Two goats on a rock, touching noses in thin air. Once in a while one of them looks back. And stays.

I am not collecting portraits. I want to keep those hours. We share a home with them. They do not share one with us.

Tatsiana Tarasava

Centennial and Winter Park, Colorado