LB: Burning the list has been a tradition of mine since I was a kid, and while I fully accept the practical absurdity of it I still find the gesture romantic and cathartic. You’re right about it being a form of acceptance, but it’s not to be confused with resignation. The nature of my relationship with Cyprus has, like any relationship, shifted and grown over time. Cyprus began as a job – I was a photographer for an archaeological dig. Then it was a project that became my MFA thesis – something wrapped up in a bow for an audience and defended in front of a committee. During this time I struggled with being newly diagnosed with HIV. Tests were done, lots and lots of tests, and it was determined I contracted the virus in Cyprus. My CD4 count hovered very close to the threshold that would medically classify me as having AIDS. I’ve never felt more afraid or alone, so I went looking for answers. I wanted to know how something like this could happen, how it could happen to me, and could I do something to stop it from happening to someone else. I started to get my answers when I became involved with the AIDS Solidarity Movement of Cyprus, which is work I love and ache for when I’m not there. Sometimes photography is involved but mostly I help with HIV and STI testing campaigns, hand out condoms, proofread reports, and occasionally speak publicly about being a person living with HIV. When you do this kind of work you tend to find yourself in rooms with like-minded people who refuse to tolerate their own and others’ suffering. This is the kind of common purpose that transcends all linguistic, cultural, and geographic borders. My photographs are of people I love, the parties we throw, the work we do, the things we hide, the physical, political, and social landscapes we inhabit and that inhabit us.