A photograph is an odd thing. It captures a sliver of time, reducing the vastness of a life to a moment’s stillness. It takes the beauty of personal experience and presses it flat, stealing the scent of the air, the murmur of the world, the warmth of touch.What lingers is only an echo—a time capsule frozen mid-thought—of a hand curled around the wood and wire of a guitar neck and the burnished glow of nitrocellulose lacquer. But if compelling enough, a photograph stirs something in the mind, the heart even, and invites curiosity. Then…