I descend into the subway once again. The dank, dark tunnels of the T are oppressive. Throngs of people pack onto the train and as we pull out of the station, a woman's hair is touching my cheek. The conductor hits the brakes, and I narrowly avoid landing in a man's lap. After an interminable trip, we arrive at the terminus. The doors screech and the train dumps us all onto the platform in a heap.

As I navigate a serpentine path through the swarm of people, I encounter an expansive, secular cathedral with brilliant sunshine streaming through skylights. The sky is so bright that I must squint to look up. I stop abruptly to absorb the beauty that I had ignored each preceding day, when I had obliviously dodged the newspaper vendors and the lady with five Macy's bags. Today, I gaze upward, becoming the obstacle for other commuters.

The following Saturday, after a heavy rain, I return with my camera and 5 rolls of film. The space feels different through the lens. There's a calmness, a quietude. As I photograph, the images I envision are hectic, but there is space to pause. There are tranquil moments of rest. A darkness anchors each image; a vast space of lightness is punctuated by lines that pull my eye through the frame, from corner to corner and back again. The rhythm is palpable.

I seek to create space to breathe in my daily commute. By photographing the entrances to the T, I find that I can bear the unnatural environment by recognizing and creating beauty, as imperceptible as it may be. My camera becomes a tool to appease my innate desire for rhythm and harmony while enduring a chaotic and cacophonous environment. I photograph because I must resolve this disparity in my favor.