The Edge of the World
Uskudar, Turkiye
circa 2019
© Mustafa Davis
Many mornings in Istanbul, before the world stirred, I wandered to the edge of the Bosphorus with my camera in hand. In winter, the fog would descend like a veil—thick, low, and impenetrable—concealing the view so completely that it felt as though I stood at the edge of the world, staring into an endless void.
And yet, even in blindness, the sound of the fishing boats murmured through the fog, their bells faint but certain. Seagulls cried overhead. The city lived, even hidden.
One morning, as I framed a shot of the light and shadows dancing on the fog, a man stepped into view and blew a ribbon of smoke into the cold air. The smoke lingered just long enough to become something more than itself—shape, symbol, story. I clicked the shutter. Then it was gone. Forever.
That’s the rhythm of the photographer’s life—a quiet and anxious ache wrapped in pursuit. Always reaching for what will never remain. It’s a quest for the fleeting moment that barely forms before it begins to vanish. An attempt to hold still what will never be still. And even when you capture it—the moment dissolves the instant it’s touched, leaving behind a shadow of time. A photograph is never the moment itself. It’s a relic, a trace—something that says it was here, but can never say it is.
If I'm honest, there’s pain in that—deep, gnawing pain. But also solace. Because in the endless/impossible pursuit, the photographer finds meaning. Not in the moment captured, but in the search itself.