A woman in a torn gauze dress crouches at center, holding an axe.

Around her, the room is a clutter of objects: A flock of birds flying out of a hole in the floor and roosting on the limbs of a tree emerging from the colorful fleur de lis wallpaper; a tiny rocking horse; a rabbit; a birdcage; an overturned chair; a hornet’s nest; candles, tattered books with broken bindings, animal horns, clumps of dug-up roots.

Dorothy O’Connor’s photograph “Passage” is rich with details; the eye is drawn everywhere, almost all at once.