Photographer Lorna Crozier What of the blind photographer? The one who measures distance by the warmth of the sun on her eyelids, the one who hears the picture and snaps that sound when you hear only silence, the one who lists fourteen colors of the rain. You imagine her cloaked and hooded in a black cloth, a photographer from long ago who grew images like lichen on glass and copper, her fingers running over the plates as if they spoke to her in Braille. There are days when you blind yourself with too much longing. Light is tactile then. With its many hands it washes the dullness from your skin,…