I don’t know what these photos are. I know what they embody, but I don’t know what they’re for. I know what they are not: images in frames on a mantelpiece, next to a father, chubby babies, and a great-uncle in uniform.

a love affair between A. and M. during A.’s breast cancer treatment. encounters in hotel rooms and various apartments leave behind traces of discarded clothing and remnants of the night. the two decide to photograph the arrangement. The result is a series of still lifes, which are featured in the book and discussed by both of them. Intimate glimpses into the fragile relationship, into nights marked by passion, uncertainty, and fear. the medical treatment leaves its mark. fifferent memories of those nights, of the objects in the pictures, and of the thoughts they shared alternate.

I realize that I am fascinated by photos in the same way I’ve been fascinated, since childhood, by blood, semen, and urine stains on sheets, or old mattresses, discarded on sidewalks; by the stains of wine or food embedded in the wood of sideboards, the stains of coffee or greasy fingers on old letters—the most material and organic kinds of stains. I realize that I expect the same thing from writing. I want words to be like stains you cannot tear yourself away from.

I am both impressed and overwhelmed by the unflinching candour, the intimacy, the vulnerability. the photographs fade into the background; they are merely a means to an end.