Memory’s Patina

Major events are remembered. As if the event goes from the short-term memory dock to the long-term without lingering.  But I see in my minds eye, me, on September 12th, 2001. I called my son and husband on a hardwired phone.  But it was this day that the power and speed of ‘the internet’.

I was living in Boston then and worked at one of the major universities there. A co-worker ran down the hall, poked  her head in my office and said: “get on Washington Post dot com. . . a plane hit the world trade tower.” And for some reason I got in and watched the second plane. And I watched it again. Called my son and husband just to hear their voices. Then watched again. . .

But it’s the still images of photography that I return to.  Memories grow fat or thin over time. We conjure them up on the date and they rise with a patina or tarnish.  Raised by a documentary photographer, I learned early the drama of black and white, to dodge and burn, to manipulate an image.  Perhaps this is how I remember to remember.

 

The Photographers’ Stories

 

 

 

 

 

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