Photography Memories Quotes

What i like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.

A good snapshot keeps a moment from running away.

Photography is all about secrets. The secrets we all have and will never tell.

It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down....

We take pictures because we can't accept that everything passes, we can't accept that the repetition of a moment is an impossibility. We wage a monotonous war against our own impending deaths, against time that turns children into that other, lesser species: adults. We take pictures because we know we will forget. We will forget the week, the day, the hour. We will forget when we were happiest. We take pictures out of pride, a desire to have the best of ourselve preserved. We fear that we will die and others will not know we lived.

Both those taking snaps and documentary photographers, however, have not understood 'information.' What they produce are camera memories, not information, and the better they do it, the more they prove the victory of the camera over the human being.

There's something about photography I love -- a whole memory caught in a moment.

Thanks to photography, some memories overstay their welcome.

A paradox: the same century invented History and PHotography. But History is a memory fabricated according to positive formulas, a pure intellectual discourse which abolishes mythic Time; and the Photograph is a certain but fugitive testimony; so that everything, today, prepares our race for this impotence: to be no longer able to conceive duration, affectively or symbolically: the age of the Photograph is also the age of revolutions, contestations, assassinations, explosions, in short, of impatiences, of everything which denies ripening.

When people photograph an object, they often put a pack of cigarettes next to it to give the viewer a sense of the object’s actual size, but the pack of cigarettes next to the images in my memory expanded and contracted, depending on my mood at the time. Like the objects and events in constant flux, or perhaps in opposition to them, what should have been a fixed yardstick inside the framework of my memory seemed instead to be in perpetual motion.

Judging by the photograph it seemed like I hadn’t been there at all. As if it was my camera that had been on holiday, and not me.

Every time the long-forgotten people of the past are remembered, they are born again!

Sure I worried that writing about it might be a mistake. You write a thing down because you're hoping to get a hold on it. You write about experiences partly to understand what they mean, partly not to lose them to time. To oblivion. But there's always the danger of the opposite happening. Losing the memory of the experience itself to the memory of writing about it. Like people whose memories of places they've traveled to are in fact only memories of the pictures they took there. In the end, writing and photography probably destroy more of the past than they ever preserve of it. So it could happen: by writing about someone lost - or even just talking too much about them - you might be burying them for good.

Frozen in time, captured in memories, filled in passion, she melted in love before his eyes.

Images are inherently fascistic because they overstamp the truth, however dim and blurred, of the real past experience; as if, faced with ruins, we must turn architects, not archeologists.

I have a hunch that our obsession with photography arises from an unspoken pessimism; it is our nature to believe the good things will not last. . . But photos provide a false sense of security> like our flawed memory, they are guaranteed to fade. . . . We take photographs in order to remember, but it is in the nature of a photograph to forget (pg 157)

Let us take you into a deeper experience, make a moment a lasting conveyable memory. Let us help build your tribe.

No amount of photography could replace the memories of a life lived, of lives observed and known, of lives elaborated in the mind and on the page.

Those static images have the uncanny ability to jar the memory and bring places and people back to life. They bridge the present with the past and validate as real what the passage of time has turned into hazy recollections. Were it not for them, my experiences would have remained as just imperfect memories of perfect moments.

Sometimes, all you can take are memories But if you’re lucky enough to capture the moment, it lives forever, immortally fixed.

Dad says that the world is always changing, every second of every day, and so is everything in it, which means that the you you are right now is different from the you you were when you started reading this sentence. Crazy, right? And your memories change, too. (For instance, I swear the teddy bear I had growing up was green, but according to my parents it was orange.) But when you take a photograph, things stay still. The way that they were, is the way that they are, is the way that they will always be.

Of all the means of expression, photography is the only one that fixes forever the precise and transitory instant. We photographers deal in things that are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished, there is no contrivance on earth that can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory. The writer has time to reflect. He can accept and reject, accept again; and before committing his thoughts to paper he is able to tie the several relevant elements together. There is also a period when his brain "forgets," and his subconscious works on classifying his thoughts. But for photographers, what has gone is gone forever.

My condition is the same without camera, like fish without water.

Les souvenirs sont parfois comme ces photographies blanchies par le temps, dont les détails ressurgissent à la faveur d'un certain éclairage.

The willful amnesia afflicting the sciences in general contrasts sharply with the importance given to memory by the humanities. Literature, philosophy, politics, and the visual arts, including photography and filmmaking, feed on memory. Practitioners of the humanities need memory to deepen and refine their thinking.

Amber starts off as sap from a tree," Joseph said in the dark. "And sometimes insects get caught in it, and over millions of years the amber turns into a gemstone, but it traps the insect inside." "Oh." "A photograph is sort of like that, don't you think?

It's a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to evaporate with the past, should exist only in memories glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photography forces us to see people before their future weighed down on them. Before they knew their endings.

All memory is individual, unreproducible - it dies with each person. What is called collective memory is not a remembering but a stipulation: that is important, and this is the story about how it happened, with the pictures that lock the story in our minds. Ideologies create substantiating archives of images, representative images, which encapsulate common ideas of significance and trigger predictable thoughts, feelings.

The instant before something comes into focus is more exciting than any sharp certainty. Photography, child, is about the passing of time. Capturing is the goal of literature. Timelessness is the task of music and painting. But a good photograph holds time just as a vase holds water. The water will evaporate and the vase becomes a memorial to it. What separates a snapshot from a masterpiece is that the latter is a metaphor of patience...

A photograph is the best split-second decision one can make!

Capture the moment. It is your only sacred-memory.

Our photographs are our best proof to others that we lived the things we lived in the past!

When you've had a bad experience, you sometimes feel compelled to recreate it in a way that allows you to control it.

Seeing old photographs, we get enamored by the memories we made which will keep tugging at our heart-strings forever and ever...

Whenever we look at a photograph, the memories in the photograph become our memories as well!

How can we hold onto those fleeting moments in our lives? Hold onto the moments that otherwise evaporate into the forgotten past? Or moments that become faded and morphed into our own version of reality as they sit in the corners of our memories, losing their truth and shifting focus? The only way to hold onto these moments and share them for years to come, in all their beauty and truth and glorious imperfections, without losing accuracy is through a photograph.

Most of what happens to us goes unremembered. The events of our life are like photographic negatives. The few that make it into the developing solution and become photographs are what we call our memories.

To remember is to rewrite. To photograph is to replace. The only reliable memories, I suppose, are the ones that have been forgotten. They are the dark rooms of the mind. Unopened, untouched, and uncorrupted.

He sought a way to preserve the past. John Hershel was one of the founders of a new form of time travel.... a means to capture light and memories. He actually coined a word for it... photography. When you think about it, photography is a form of time travel. This man is staring at us from across the centuries, a ghost preserved by light.

It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to evaporate with the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.

Before the invention of photography, significant moments in the flow of our lives would be like rocks placed in a stream: impediments that demonstrated but didn’t diminish the volume of the flow and around which accrued the debris of memory, rich in sight, smell, taste, and sound. No snapshot can do what the attractive mnemonic impediment can: when we outsource that work to the camera, our ability to remember is diminished and what memories we have are impoverished.

Wiping her eyes, she steeled herself for what was to come, a bonanza of images celebrating their relationship, recording the silly, funny and even the angry moments. Viren with his love of photography ensured that each occasion, big or small had a reminder.

To get from the tangible to the intangible (which mature artists in any medium claim as part of their task) a paradox of some kind has frequently been helpful. For the photographer to free himself of the tyranny of the visual facts upon which he is utterly dependent, a paradox is the only possible tool. And the talisman paradox for unique photography is to work "the mirror with a memory" as if it were a mirage, and the camera is a metamorphosing machine, and the photograph as if it were a metaphor…. Once freed of the tyranny of surfaces and textures, substance and form [the photographer] can use the same to pursue poetic truth" (Minor White, Newhall, 281).

He sought a way to preserve the past. John Hershel was one of the founders of a new form of time travel.... a means to capture light and memories. He actually coined a word for it... photography. When you think about it, photography is a form of time travel. This man is staring at us from across the centuries, a ghost preserved by light.

For Love...Real Love...The Kind Of Love That Lasts Forever...

The images in our mind is more vivid than the camera could ever produce.

Photography is never real, it’s merely one of many ways of telling the truth.

There’s something about photography I love. A whole memory, caught in a moment.” “That’s very well put.

The lives of even quite recent generations might almost disappear from our understanding if we did not think of their aspirations.

The moment defines the memories.

I cannot make your memories, But I can save some for you.

All happy families are alike in the pain their members helplessly inflict upon one another, as if under orders from a perverse higher authority.

I wonder whether a lot of us, perhaps most of us, only pretend to be interested in the answers to the questions we ask, and whether the word "empathy" refers to a performance rather than to a feeling.

Sex, or masturbation, is the only experience that millions of people are able to truly enjoy, despite their knowing that it has not been, is not being, and will not be captured to be shared on social media.

All these imperfections we wanted out of our perfect pictures, are, in fact the core of our perfect memories. All these imperfections that are, ultimately, after many cursing and resignation, life; life after all.

He was really quite addicted to her face, and yet for the longest time he could not remember it at all, it being so much brighter than sunlight on a pool of water that he could only recall that blinding brightness; then after awhile, since she refused to give him her photograph, he began to practice looking away for a moment when he was still with her, striving to uphold in his inner vision what he had just seen (her pale, serious, smooth and slender face, oh, her dark hair, her dark hair), so that after immense effort he began to retain something of her likeness although the likeness was necessarily softened by his fallibility into a grainy, washed-out photograph of some bygone court beauty, the hair a solid mass of black except for parallel streaks of sunlight as distinct as the tines of a comb, the hand-tinted costume sweetly faded, the eyes looking sadly, gently through him, the entire image cob-webbed by a sheet of semitranslucent Thai paper whose white fibers twisted in the lacquered space between her and him like gorgeous worms; in other words, she remained eternally elsewhere.

It’s important to take bad pictures. It’s the bad ones that have to do with what you’ve never done before. They can make you recognize something you hadn’t seen in a way that will make you recognize it when you see it again.

At age four I was a camera. I took pictures with my eyes. I framed my photo within my vision and blinked my eyes to snap the shutter of my memory. Since that time, I've been impersonating inanimate objects at every opportunity.

As Marcel Proust understood, memory is not exclusively or even predominantly visual. It is synesthetic, a combination and even a confusion of the senses that no simple image can reach or encapsulate. A photograph can act as a spur to memory, it can yield treasures, like looking under your bed and finding the baseball card you were certain you lost. But an image stands mute before the inexpressible delicacy, horror, humor, and associative complexity of our experience.

Language let us forget the sights and sounds of the world, the wheel let us transcend our bodies, artificial light let us control night and day, photography let us outsource and manipulate our memories, books and phones and the internet reduced distances to a point, denied Earth its immensity.

Famously contemptuous of the art of photography, Marcel Proust, of all men, would have understood that the face I am seeking is in the end unfixable. People never stop changing position in relation to us. In the imperceptible but incessant movement of the world, we regard them as immobile in an instant of vision too brief for us to notice the moment which is propelling them. But we have only to select from our memories two pictures of them taken at different times, but similar enough for them not to change in themselves, at least not perceptibly and the difference between the two pictures is a gauge of the displacement they have undergone in relation to us. Even the dead are not immobile and dreams pay no homage to the absurd waking-myth of fixity.

Losing the memory of the experience itself to the memory of writing about it. Like people whose memories of places they’ve traveled to are in fact only memories of the pictures they took there. In the end, writing and photography probably destroy more of the past than they ever preserve of it. So it could happen: by writing about someone lost—or even just talking too much about them—you might be burying them for good.

If you don’t do anything to capture and draw your memories—no matter whether you choose words, pencil, photography, or filming—the only place where they have a chance to exist is in your head, which can’t be called the most reliable place to store them; soon, they’d be lost forever… leaving no trace, like they never existed… like YOU never existed… same as those billions and billions of lives that had already disappeared from the world.

Imagination, then, must be the flip side of memory, not so much a calling up as a calling forth. Yet imagination also relies on knowledge: on knowing what is—and is not—possible in this world of fact. Imagination plants the seed or buries the bulb knowing the seasons will shift, seeing, in the mind’s eye, April give way to August, the azalea to the rose, knowing that the red leaves of the maple will burnish in autumn, knowing that from this exact window, one can look down to the inlet where the moon’s reflection will be just another shimmering white blossom.

She was my champion. She was my archive. She had taken the utmost care to preserve the evidence of my existence and growth. Capturing me in images. Saving all my documents and possessions. She had all knowledge of my being memorized. The time I was born. My unborn cravings. The first book I read. The formation of every characteristic. Every ailment and little victory. She observed me with unparalleled interest. Inexhaustible devotion. Now that she was gone, there was no one left to ask about these things. The knowledge left unrecorded died with her. What remained were documents and my memories. And now it was up to me to make sense of myself, aided by the signs she left behind. How cyclical and bittersweet, for a child to retrace the image of their mother. For a subject to turn back to document the archivist… The memories I had stored, I could not let fester. Could not let trauma infiltrate and spread to spoil and render them useless. They were moments to be tended. The culture we shared was active, effervescent in my gut and in my genes and I had to seize it, foster it, so it did not die in me, so that I could pass it on someday. The lessons she imparted, the proof of her life lived on in me in my every move and deed. I was what she left behind. If I could not be with my mother, I would be her.

Put that thing down, girl. Don't you know it steals part of your soul, that little mechanical masterpiece you hold so frivolously? Don't you know it's not just mine it seals into its gears and trick mirrors, but yours, too. What you feel at this moment, what you hope for, what your dreams are, what you think your future will unfold like, it steals it all from you, too. You aren't safe just because of the side of the lens you're on. And later, when everything is said and done, and you want to forget everything that happened in these walls, when you're all alone, this picture, this piece of your soul you didn't even know was gone, will haunt you. It will come bearing knives and AKs and nine millimeters, and it will destroy you from the inside out. Put that damned thing down and stop acting like any of this is something worth remembering.

The Memory Business Steven Sasson is a tall man with a lantern jaw. In 1973, he was a freshly minted graduate of the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. His degree in electrical engineering led to a job with Kodak’s Apparatus Division research lab, where, a few months into his employment, Sasson’s supervisor, Gareth Lloyd, approached him with a “small” request. Fairchild Semiconductor had just invented the first “charge-coupled device” (or CCD)—an easy way to move an electronic charge around a transistor—and Kodak needed to know if these devices could be used for imaging.4 Could they ever. By 1975, working with a small team of talented technicians, Sasson used CCDs to create the world’s first digital still camera and digital recording device. Looking, as Fast Company once explained, “like a ’70s Polaroid crossed with a Speak-and-Spell,”5 the camera was the size of a toaster, weighed in at 8.5 pounds, had a resolution of 0.01 megapixel, and took up to thirty black-and-white digital images—a number chosen because it fell between twenty-four and thirty-six and was thus in alignment with the exposures available in Kodak’s roll film. It also stored shots on the only permanent storage device available back then—a cassette tape. Still, it was an astounding achievement and an incredible learning experience. Portrait of Steven Sasson with first digital camera, 2009 Source: Harvey Wang, From Darkroom to Daylight “When you demonstrate such a system,” Sasson later said, “that is, taking pictures without film and showing them on an electronic screen without printing them on paper, inside a company like Kodak in 1976, you have to get ready for a lot of questions. I thought people would ask me questions about the technology: How’d you do this? How’d you make that work? I didn’t get any of that. They asked me when it was going to be ready for prime time? When is it going to be realistic to use this? Why would anybody want to look at their pictures on an electronic screen?”6 In 1996, twenty years after this meeting took place, Kodak had 140,000 employees and a $28 billion market cap. They were effectively a category monopoly. In the United States, they controlled 90 percent of the film market and 85 percent of the camera market.7 But they had forgotten their business model. Kodak had started out in the chemistry and paper goods business, for sure, but they came to dominance by being in the convenience business. Even that doesn’t go far enough. There is still the question of what exactly Kodak was making more convenient. Was it just photography? Not even close. Photography was simply the medium of expression—but what was being expressed? The “Kodak Moment,” of course—our desire to document our lives, to capture the fleeting, to record the ephemeral. Kodak was in the business of recording memories. And what made recording memories more convenient than a digital camera? But that wasn’t how the Kodak Corporation of the late twentieth century saw it. They thought that the digital camera would undercut their chemical business and photographic paper business, essentially forcing the company into competing against itself. So they buried the technology. Nor did the executives understand how a low-resolution 0.01 megapixel image camera could hop on an exponential growth curve and eventually provide high-resolution images. So they ignored it. Instead of using their weighty position to corner the market, they were instead cornered by the market.

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Photography is the quintessence of a telling memory where it allows us to preserve time in a photograph.

Ken Schles: Modern humans think and operate under the percept that knowledge comes from within us, but I see us in a transitional phase where cybernetic knowledge is destroying the boundaries of where memory and knowledge is situated. It’s a crisis in the making. But perhaps there’s always been confusion. Culture, a creation of Mnemosyne, is nor something that can be possessed internally. It can only be experienced outwardly, collectively, in communication with, in participation with. Perhaps, that’s why collectors put such a high price on art: so they can privately imprison an expression of gods.

You write a thing down because you're hoping to get a hold on it. You write about experiences partly to understand what they mean, partly not to lost them to time. To oblivion. But there's always the danger of the opposite happening. Losing the memory of the experience itself to the memory of writing about it. Like people whose memories of the places they've traveled to are in fact only memories of the pictures they took there. In the end, writing and photography probably destroy more of the past than they ever preserve of it. So it could happen: by writing about someone lost - or even just talking too much about them - you might be burying them for good.

All of those thousands upon thousands of photographs my father had taken. Think of them instead. Each one a record, a testament, a bulwark against forgetting, against nothingness, against death. Look, this happened. A thing happened, and now it will never un happen. Here it is in a photograph: a baby putting its tiny hand in the wrinkled palm of an octogenarian. A fox running across a woodland path and a man raising a gun to shoot it. A plane crash. A comet smeared across a morning sky. A prime minister wiping his brow. The Beatles, sitting at a cafe table on the Champs-Elysees on a cold January day in 1964, John Lennon's pale face under the brim of a fisherman's cap. all these things happened, and my father committed them to a memory that wasn't just his own, but the world's. My father's life wasn't about disappearance. His was a life that worked against it.

I always thought that Jax was my golden ticket to happiness, but I was wrong. There is joy without Jax, and in actuality, there always has been. In all my happy memories, he was there, and I let myself think that he was the reason. But now, I know that he was just along for the ride, just as I was on his roller coaster through life. He was a passenger on my ride, the one I created. I have the choice to live my life with regret or to live it with gratitude, and I’m choosing the latter. I still don’t understand everything that has happened, and maybe I never will. But I know that this isn’t the end for me. I’m not on the downward slide of life at almost twenty-three. Bigger and better things are out there. A smile warms my face as I focus on the full suitcase sitting next to my bedroom door. I leave tomorrow for New York City. I still can’t wrap my mind around that one either. While looking for photography jobs online this summer, I came across an internship at a huge advertising firm, and I applied on a whim. I knew that the competition would be fierce, and the chances of me getting

I dream for an absentee and oft maligned device—the accident-maker, the soul-taker, my camera; its factory guaranteed third eye, without which I am duly dim and memory denied. No pictures for my contrived Arbus to declare, excepting some stitch of Sexton manages these sentences of despair.

He nods, looking through the pictures on the screen on the back of his camera. Some relationships can only exist as memories. But unlike ephemeral digital images that can be sorted and deleted, we can’t erase the past. We have to learn to live with all the images that are stored in love's archive, memories tagged good and bad. No Photoshopping. Accept the negative before moving forward.

Photographs were such powerful magic. It was a gift from the God of Immortality. I felt like both my mom and dad were on either side of my shoulder as I flipped through the album. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like an orphan. For the first time, I felt the warmth and love of a complete family through the album.

Photography is an amazing culture that form by the memories.

Pictures: When moments become memories

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Photos are moments in the history. Reviving magical memories is weaving life with fantastic thread.

Most of what happens to us goes unremembered. The events of our lives are like photographic negatives. The few that make it into the developing solution and become photographs are what we call our memories.

photography can help us to grasp. The camera can capture scenes that pass too quickly, too remotely, or too obscurely for the subject to consciously perceive. By enlarging details, or by slowing down or stopping time, the camera pictures phenomena that the viewer has encountered and unconsciously registered but not consciously processed. This sense of the optical unconscious is not about making latent memory traces visible, however, but rather demonstrating the reach and complexity of unconscious perception,

Freud proposes that the relation of unconscious memories to conscious perception is like that of the negative to the photographic print: "It has long since become common knowledge that the experience of the first five years of childhood exert a decisive influence on our life. ... The process may be compared to a photograph, which can be developed and made into a picture after a short or long interval." The powerful force of early childhood experiences remains latent and inaccessible, just as a negative can remain unprocessed for a long period of time before being made into a positive print.

Many childhood experiences remain unconscious. Further, when and if development does take place, what is remembered is actually something that went unobserved in the first instance. According to Freud, latent memories are constituted by what a child has experienced and "not understood," and indeed, "may never be re-membered.

The optical unconscious remains elusive. This concept is not something that is directly available to sight, but it nevertheless informs and influences what comes into view. By attending to this idea, one might become newly aware of previously unnoticed details and dynamics, as well as the material, social, and psychic structures that shape perception. In several of his books, the British psychoanalyst Christopher Bollas described this disavowed dimension as the "unthought known." This refers to material that is either emotionally undigested or actively barred from consciousness." As Bollas teaches us, this "unthought" material is, in fact, an integral part of knowledge. And indeed, it seems photography may be one of the principal means to circulate this unconscious material that remains vexingly obscure. Like latent memories, details of photographic information snap into focus and become visible in unpredictable moments. As Benjamin put it, they"flash up" in moments of danger and desire - and they can quickly fade from view unless seized in a moment of recognition.

I mean a photo is just that: a moment in time. We don’t know what’s really going on with the people in the picture. And we don’t know what’s going on with the photographer. What makes it important is what we bring to the photo: our assumption of who is the bad guy and who is the good guy. What makes it important is how we feel when we look at it. And a photograph doesn’t have to be about riots or death or famine or children at play in a war zone to make an impact.

photography is also multiply concerned with projection — the projection of images onto the retina; the projection of the photographer’s ideas and thoughts onto and into  images, and our unique interpretation of each particular photograph we see, coloured by our own personal histories our conscious memories and all the unconscious fantasies that we have little access to, except via, parapraxes, slips of the tongue, or own analyses… but particularly via dreams, what Freud called “The Royal Road to the unconscious” .

What Pamuk is also engaging with at this point and throughout the book is the relationship of memory and photography and the argument put forward by Walter Benjamin and other commentators that photography creates a ‘false’ or ‘counter’ memory which results in what Sontag calls the replacement of memory by a photograph.24

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I suggest that it’s better to have a good memory of a wonderful scene than a bad photograph of it, which will eventually become your memory of it.

You see, i f you have t rue photographic vision, you have clar i ty and i f you have clarity, you don't need to explain or defend your images. Clar i ty is about what emot ions or feel ings the image is t rying to evoke, not the fact s behind the image. Photographic clar i ty is about passion of purpose. I t 's about a single-minded desi re to protect a memory. I t 's about story tel l ing wi th a camera that 's so power ful , no words are necessary.

every move the bride and groom make from the time they

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I wonder if we would ever switch back to old photo albums we got printed from photography shops. A Kodak KB10 camera with 36 photos worth of film roll, waiting for it to complete before sending the photos for developing. Nothing was instant, it would sometimes take months to compete a film and weeks to get the prints. The joy of seeing the photos, the disappointment to find a ruined image due to shaky hands. Even after having lots of camera and GBs of memory cards will never bring the same feeling.

I went to a music concert last night. I took a bunch of pictures, because nothing captures sound like a photograph.

There’s something about photography I love. A whole memory, caught in a moment.

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Sadly, Thomas Croxton did not get the monument he deserved. The following words are what he requested to be inscribed onto his monument; I hope that placing the wording into this page helps preserve his memory: Departed the life, in his happy flight, THOMAS CROXTON Founder of the Town of Croxton, and the Statue of his Majesty George the Third Æ67, A.D. 1815

Photography is a system of saving memories. It’s a time machine, in a way, to preserve the memory, preserve time.