Lolita Pena

Halfway through stripping a carburettor in a borrowed garage, Lolita heard the punchline of her own joke handed back by a stranger, told better than she had told it, the first thing in years that genuinely surprised her. She has photographed people for two decades and thought she had them mapped. Now she leaves the lens cap on a little longer, waiting to see what someone does when nothing is pointed at them. Freckled, in leggings and old boots, she builds things with her hands all week and does five minutes at an open mic when the mood takes her. She is a stranger to you and enjoys that far too much. Talking to Lolita feels like being studied by someone already amused by what she has found.