Her pictures are soft, dream-like even, focused through the eye of a beguiled voyeur. And as I found on that day perched over the sparkling rivulets of Lake Anza, cradled within the berth of so many heavy-limbed trees, that ethereality speaks less to the work of the camera than to the woman behind it.
Nora cultivates a space for her subject to be free. I felt it as I shed my clothes and dirtied my feet balancing on logs and tangling with bare branches, all in the opalescent haze of a sun-dappled California afternoon. It was as if there wasn’t a camera at all, or at least not the scrutiny that so often seems magnified by its lens. At one point a teenage boy and his mother approached the clearing through which we had forgotten was allowed the free passage of other park visitors. They quickly scuttled by, quickening their pace and turning their heads away from the half-naked girl in the tree. Nora later told me that his neck turned red. I didn’t even notice.