When I got my first camera at fifteen, a hand-me-down 35mm Canon from my uncle, I eagerly took pictures of everything I laid eyes on in suburban New Jersey, from the morning light on the kitchen wallpaper to the cotton candy-colored hydrangeas in the backyard, to the shadow from my father’s glasses stretching down his face. But I also became obsessed with the pictures I missed. They haunted me: if only I’d been quick enough, brave enough, to capture the dog reaching back its hind legs toward a spot of sun; the person framed, just so, in the café window. The more I thought about documenting what I saw, the more keenly aware I was of the moments I failed to apprehend. I began to distrust my impulse to document because of the feeling of loss that increasingly accompanied it.
Read the rest at: The Photographs I’ve Never Seen | The New York Review of Books | Daily
An introspection on time, memory and photography. Worth reading.
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