One of the more confounding issues afflicting the perception of photography as art has been the struggle to define, classify and categorize it. Perhaps, because of its versatility, photography has become increasingly easy to disappear down a taxonomic rabbit hole in attempts to define its place in the arts. Its utilitarian value for documentation and commercial illustration as well as its role in fine art have become muddled, an imbrication of utility and aesthetics. However,

“Death came for me In the dark of an early winter’s morning. Gently, she took me along a path Leading in the direction of a distant cottage. No incarnate form or hooded manifestation, Only her presence nearby to lead me Beside the dark, meandering, indecipherable river. Illuminated by the light of night only, The path, hard pack, traced the river’s contours, Its water running smooth, almost still, slow and black But for the reflected shimmer of morning stars. In the distance