Intimate Intervention catches people mid-adjustment, those tiny acts of grooming that happen between bodies when someone fixes your collar or tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. These aren’t grand gestures. They’re maintenance work, care operating at the smallest scale, performed without announcement in parks, on sidewalks and wherever two people decide the world can watch.

The series lives in a specific tension: these moments should feel private but they’re not. The subjects stay locked into each other, oblivious or indifferent to their audience. A hand reaches across to straighten a twisted strap. Fingers brush lint from a shoulder. The street doesn’t disappear, but it stops mattering. What the work exposes is how intimacy creates its own atmosphere, a field of attention so focused it can exist anywhere. Trust gets measured in these permissions. Who gets to touch your face in public? Who adjusts your clothing without asking? The answers map relationships more accurately than any declaration could.

The images stack up like evidence: intimacy isn’t about location. It’s about permission and attention. Two people absorbed in a moment of care can turn a subway platform into private territory just by ignoring everything else. The work dismantles any neat separation between public performance and private exchange. These acts are both. They’re genuine and they’re visible. The contradiction is the point. Intimacy doesn’t need walls. It just needs two people willing to grant each other access while the rest of us walk by.