Crowd Photography Quotes

Page thirteen of the Baudelaire file was not a crowded sheet of paper - there was just one photography and a sentence to make an author cry himself to sleep even years after the photograph was taken, or to make three siblings sit and stare at a page for a long time, as if an entire book were printed on one sheet of paper.

I have always loved being behind the camera. I love how it sets you apart in a crowd, so that you can float at the edges, pausing only occasionally to capture a moment. In its own way it’s easier than writing. As a writer, I have to know people, to talk to them, to barge into silences with a dozen of those little lighthearted quips that lead up to a conversation. And even then, they’re guarded around you. Nobody wants their drunken conversation written down somewhere. Being a photographer is different. People come to you. They smile. They flirt. They make sure you see only their best side. Nobody wants to upset the camera.

I wanted to evaluate my own escape from the crowds in 5 different stages so that I could clarify my thoughts and help my readers get more benefits. (1) Getting away from the media (2) Getting away from the big city (3) Going to nature as a life style (4) Getting away from the social media (5) Being only with people I want

he could smell her petals, with their warming colors. and hear her silent wisdom as he listened to those colors...and her beauty, behold! wow; oh, how he wanted so badly to keep her and cherish her...but he dare not take her away from the other purple flowers, she was not his to take. because it was there that she was needed, and there he would let her be, standing out above the crowd, where she belonged

Getting away from the media was the first step of breaking away from the crowds, and let me clearly state, not in 1 day, 5 days, 10 days but in 4-5 months, I started to feel relief in myself, and I had the ability to think more positively about the things I experienced. I know that there are millions of people around me who believe that following current events and knowing them, as I did once, is an important thing. Besides, I also know that they are the millions of people who have not been able to build their own world yet.

I'm not constantly looking for the "right" in my thoughts. I am, actually, scared of absolute “rights”. Therefore, I don't think my book will appeal to people who seek concrete formulas from me to be happy and who have designed their lives mechanically. But I do believe my book can give something to people who live their lives going from information to information like a bee, who depend on their own syntheses as the outcomes and have flexible thought, and who could be an "individual".

By the time Albie is my age I will be long gone, or, best-case scenario, barricaded into my living module with enough rations to see out my days. But outside, I imagine vast, unregulated factories where workers count themselves lucky to toil through eighteen-hour days for less than a living wage before pulling on their gas masks to fight their way through the unemployed masses who are bartering with the mutated chickens and old tin-cans that they use for currency, those lucky workers returning to tiny, crowded shacks in a vast megalopolis where a tree is never seen, the air is thick with police drones, where car-bomb explosions, typhoons and freak hailstorms are so commonplace as to be barely remarked upon. Meanwhile, in the literally gilded towers above the carcinogenic smog, the privileged 1 per cent of businessmen, celebrities and entrepeneurs look down through bullet-proof windows, accept coktails in strange glasses from the robot waiters hovering nearby and laugh their tinkling laughs and somewhere, down there in that hellish, stewing mess of violence, poverty and desperation, is my son, Albie Petersen, a wandering minstrel with his guitar and his keen interest in photography, still refusing to wear a decent coat.

Susan Sontag has made perceptive remarks on the role of the photographed image in our perception of the world. She writes, for instance, of a ‘mentality which looks at the world as a set of potential photographs’,60 and argues that ‘the reality has come to seem more and more what we are shown by camera’,61 and that ‘the omnipresence of photographs has an incalculable effect on our ethical sensibility. By furnishing this already crowded world with a duplicate one of images, photography makes us feel that the world is more available than it really is.’62

I realize this is quite a surprise, as a live performance wasn’t in the program tonight,” Alex said. “And if you know me, you know I’m not famous for my patronage of the arts—or my singing skills.” Soft laughter rippled through the crowd, along with a few knowing looks. Alex waited for the chuckles to die down before he continued, his gaze burning into mine. “Whether it’s music, photography, film, or painting, the arts reflect the world around us, and for too long, I only saw the dark side. The seedy underbellies, the ugly truths. Photographs reminded me of moments in time that never lasted. Songs reminded me that words have the power to rip one’s heart out. Why, then, would I care about art when it was so terrible and destructive?” It was a bold statement to make in front of London’s art world, but no one heckled. No one so much as breathed. Alex had us all under the spell of his words. “Then someone came into my life and upended everything I thought I knew. She was everything I wasn’t—purehearted, trusting, optimistic. She showed me the beauty that existed in this world, and through her, I learned the power of faith. Joy. Love. But I’m afraid I’ve tainted her with my untruths, and I’m hoping, with all my heart, that one day she’ll find her way out of the darkness and into the light again.

I look at the pictures I have done up to now, and they make me feel that who we are and what we feel and what is to become of us just doesn’t matter. Our aspirations and successes have become cheap and petty. I read the newspapers, the columnists, some books, I look at the magazines (our press). They all deal in illusions and fantasies. I can only conclude that we have lost ourselves, and that the bomb may finish the job permanently, and it just doesn’t matter, we have not loved life. I cannot accept my conclusions, and so I must continue this photographic investigation further and deeper.

I was backing into the picture I wanted to see by noticing what wasn't in it. It was like trying to understand a photography by studying the negative. I found myself focusing not on what people remembered, focused on, and said, but on what they forgot, disregarded, and did not say. I was backing into the deep story, as I am calling it, and noticing what, in human consciousness, it crowded out.

The special connection to reality, “with which all photography is endowed,” according to Rosalind Krauss, does not quite apply. It does and does not apply. Krauss likens photography to fingerprints. To the rings that cold glasses leave on tables. A photograph, she writes, is closer to a death mask or the tracks of a gull on a beach than it is to a painting or sculpture. It’s the residue of things we see, rather than a reconstruction of things we see.