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.
