Christopher Woods


I was a writer long before I ever thought of being a photographer. I had always loved photographs, but since I was already a writer, I thought that was vice enough. Frankly, I still wonder about this, but I have begun combining the two forms and find it intriguing. A photograph can suggest the words, or words can summon an image. In the end, all that matters is that I try to capture something that makes me feel human, for better or worse.

Close Dreams

She laid out his clothes on her bed and took a picture. He was six doors down, fixing and destroying the woman who always smiled but never spoke. She walked the dogs and yelled at the cab drivers to slow down and the dogs to speed up. He read tarot cards, but never willingly. She watched, always. He asked, “Will you sign my petition?” After nine years, he still struggled to recognize her face. She shooed the stray cat that wasn’t stray from her plant. He said, “I have a gun, if anyone ever needs it.”

- Heather Harris, Baltimore Review editor