So fall is in the eaves, and will soon rush in on quiet cat feet, rustling the grasses into streams of whispers speaking up from the lowlands of South Carolina. For the moment. I’ll soon be heading back to my home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where a new series will start in earnest. It was launched here in my native state , using images from home which nurtured me for fifty-five years. Images from an old Brownie camera handed down over two generations to my parents and their siblings have filled our lives with samples of lives emerging and passed. Images from one of the first Polaroids followed and the love of a camera passed down through Kodak 100-104-110 Instamatics to a kid. In the late years of the Instamatics 35mm SLR cameras regained a toe-hold, and there we rested until the digital revolution.
And what a revolution it has been. There is much to come on that subject, for it is the story of our collective lives.
What really is a photograph but the static arrest of a moment? We cannot perceive such a static hold without the lens and diaphragm capturing that stasis for us. Yet all of us have looked at the faded brown, sometimes crazed, cracked, folded and dog-eared small scraps of paper coated with glossy emulsion which is quite fugitive by nature. Our stasis, our moments are receding, flaking off, crumbling away and acid burning into entropy.