Altarpieces were made in three panels so the eye could move across the whole story in a single glance. The Annunciation. The Nativity. The Flight into Egypt. Left to right, the narrative unfolds and you understand at the end what the first panel was preparing you for.

I didn’t know I was making an altarpiece. I was just following the light.

Frame one: his hands are cupped at his mouth. His lips are moving. His eyes are closed. The young man before him is waiting, head bowed.

Frame two: the hands have been pressed to the bowed head. The older man’s gaze has lifted. He is talking to someone who is not in the room.

Frame three: they are forehead to forehead, and the space between them has closed to nothing. Whatever has been asked for is either given now or it isn’t.

This is nafth, the Islamic practice of breathing a prayer into the palms before pressing them to someone you love and cannot protect. It is centuries older than the cage behind them. The prayer is not for victory. It is not for strength or technique or the right read at the right moment. It is simply for safety. It is the only thing left to offer once the door closes.

I photographed a lot of things that night.

This is the one I keep coming back to.

(photo/words: Brian Ragle)