Photographs are the encapsulation of our lives. They are snapshots, brief interludes into slices of time. Times long past. Memories of fighting in the trenches in WW1, the landings at Normandy, life in small Italian mountain villages. The best and worse of our histories. Photographs capture such fleeting moments that in most cases it would be impossible to reproduce. Photography is in its core essence the art of chance. Of being in the right place at the right time, of being able to capture just the right amount of photons entering the camera. Blink, and it could all be different. Before photographs our history was handed down through generations in stories, or paintings upon the wall. But neither of these is fleeting, they are thought-out, prescribed renditions of history. Photographs are not, they are raw, invoking, and often need no explanation. And while they could be considered by some to be art, they are crafted using tools which allow light to be captured. The true result is in natures control.