When I lived in Žižkov, I often found myself wandering through the older parts of Olšany. It was nearby, and one of my quiet joys was to rise early, grab a coffee and croissant along the way, and spend a few hours there with my camera in hand.

Being there felt deeply liminal. Above me, the entangled bent branches of old trees formed arches over abandoned monumental tombs and gravestones overgrown with ivy and ferns. Beneath my feet I could feel the roots of trees pushing up beneath the soil, wrapping themselves around the edges of the graves and iron fences, forcing them upwards while time and weather had softened the gaze and posture of the stone angels, making them seem almost human.

As the seasons shifted, so did the views. In fall and winter, the leaves fell away to reveal pieces of the cemetery I hadn’t seen before only to grow back over the parts I had. This shape-shifting is what I loved. It was here that I first learned to photograph. I would place the camera in front of my eyes and try to capture the beauty I saw using different ISOs, f-stops and lenses. I experimented. I allowed myself to get lost and practice seeing.