I've been looking at the world sideways for as long as I can remember.

Not at the obvious thing — at the thing next to it. The shadow on the feathers. The airplane wearing bird clothes. The woman sitting quietly in the elevator while everyone else rides the escalator up.

I shoot from a power wheelchair, which means I'm often at a different angle than the photographer standing next to me. I've made peace with that. More than peace — I've come to understand it as part of how I see. Still, low, patient. Waiting for the thing that almost wasn't there.

Photography, for me, is a practice of attention. I'm not chasing the shot. I'm already somewhere, watching, breathing, noticing what the light is doing and what the birds are about to do and what that person in the red coat doesn't know they're about to walk into. And then I wait.

Sometimes what I come home with surprises even me.

My work lives in Arizona wine country now, but it has followed me through vineyards and cathedrals, subway stations and splash pads, marshes at dawn and arenas being torn down. The subject almost never turns out to be what I thought it was when I raised the camera.

That's the part I can't stop chasing — the moment when the frame shows me something I didn't know I was seeing.

Oh, there.