Walker Evans Quotes

Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.

Whether he is an artist or not, the photographer is a joyous sensualist, for the simple reason that the eye traffics in feelings, not in thoughts.

I had it all wrong," he says. "Before I found you, I thought the only way to hold on was to find something to live for. It isn't. To hold on, you have to find something you're willing to die for.

I am a shark, Cassie," he says slowly, drawing the words out, as if he might be speaking to me for the last time. Looking into my eyes with tears in his, as if he's seeing me for the last time. "A shark who dreamed he was a man.

His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield.

Stare. It is the way to educate your eye, and more. Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.

Once a human named Evan Walker had a dream—a dream it can no longer remember—and in that dream there was a tent in the woods and in that tent there was a girl who called herself humanity, and the girl was worth more to it than its own life.

And then Evan Walker kisses me.

When I wake up the next morning, there's a Hershey's Kiss sitting on the table beside me.

I dab at the blood with some gauze from the kit, fighting back hysterical giggles. I blame it on the unbearable stress, not on the fact that I'm wiping Evan Walker's ass.

Die knowing something. You're not here long.

He was a finisher who could not finish. He was the heart of a hunter who lacked the heart to kill. In her journal she had written I am humanity, and something in those three words split him in two. She was the may fly, here for a day, then gone. She was the last star, burning bright in a sea of limitless black. Erase the human. In a burst of blinding light, the star Cassiopeia exploded and the world went black. Evan Walker had been undone.

Evan is the little branch growing out of the cliff that she clings to, and the fact that he's gone makes her hang on even tighter.

The eye traffics in feelings, not in thoughts.

And far more dangerous than greed or lust or envy or any of those things—or anything—was love.

If your job is to kill us, why didn’t you kill me?” I ask. He answers without hesitating, as if he’s decided long before I asked the question what his answer would be. “Because I’m in love with you.

You’re the mayfly,' he murmurs. And then Evan Walker kisses me. Holding my hand across his chest, his other hand sliding across my neck, his touch feathery soft, sending a shiver that travels down my spine into my legs, which are having a hard time keeping me upright. I can feel his heart slamming against my palm and I can smell his breath and feel the stubble on his upper lip, a sandpapery contrast to the softness of his lips, and Evan is looking at me and I’m looking back at him.

I think that's the way it is. When you love someone. Something happens to them, and it's a punch in the heart. Not like a punch in the heart; a real punch in the heart.

I had it all wrong. Before I found you, I thought the only way to hold on was to find something to live for. It isn't. To hold on, you have to find something you're willing to die for.

I’m about to pee myself with relief that we’re all alive, but mostly because he is. He drops into the room, landing on the balls of his feet like a cat. I’m in his arms in the time it takes to say “I love you,” which he does, stroking my hair, whispering my name and the words, “My mayfly.

Somewhere between what the lens depicts and what the caption interprets, a mental picture intervenes, a cultural ideology defining what and how to see, what to recognize as significant.

He knocks once against the side. I don’t get it at first, and then I laugh. Let’s establish a code for when you want to go all creeper on me. One knock means you’d like to come in. “Yes, Evan.” I’m laughing so hard, it’s starting to hurt. “You can come in.

That's my big problem. That's it! Before the Arrival,guys like Evan Walker never looked twice at me, much less shot wild game for me and washed my hair. They never grabbed me by the back of the neck like the airbrushed model on his mother's paperback,abs a-clenching, pecs a-popping. My eyes have never been looked into, or my chin raised to bring my lips within an inch of theirs. I was the girl in the background, the just-friend,or -worse- the friend of a just-friend, the you-sit-next-to-her-in-geometry-but-can't-remember-her-name girl.

Let’s establish a code for when you want to go all creeper on me. One knock means you’d like to come in. Two means you’re just stopping by to spy on me while I sleep.” His eyes travel from my face to my shirt (which happens to be his shirt) to my bare legs, lingering a breath too long before returning to my face. His gaze is warm. My legs are cold. Then he knocks once on the jamb. But it’s the smile that gets him in.

The daguerreotype reproduces what appeared before a lens at a particular moment and never again-its appearance is simultaneous with its disappearance, its death.

The girl sleeping and the finisher, willing himself to finish her. Why didn't he finish her? Why couldn't he finish her?

Dislodged cobwebs and dust swirled around them. The ceiling was holding for now. He doubted it could withstand another hit. Ben Parish must have been thinking the same thing. "Oh, that's great." Ben turned to Cassie. "Let's everybody form a prayer circle, quick, because we have just been royally fucked.

This is why the camera seems to me, next to unassisted and weaponless consciousness, the central instrument of our time; and is why in turn I feel such rage at its misuse: which has spread so nearly universal a corruption of sight that I know of less than a dozen alive whose eyes I can trust even so much as my own.’   ‘If

You’re not the only one,” he says through gritted teeth. “My twelve-year-old sister died in my arms. She choked to death on her own blood. And there was nothing I could do. It makes me sick, the way you act as if the worst disaster in human history somehow revolves around you. You’re not the only one who’s lost everything—not the only one who thinks they’ve found the one thing that makes any of this shit make sense. You have your promise to Sammy, and I have you.

He lays me on the bed. I say, right before he kisses me again, “If you kiss me again, I’m going to knee you in the balls.” His hands are incredibly soft, like a cloud touching me. “I won’t let you just…” He searches for the right word. “…fly away from me, Cassie Sullivan.” He blows out the candle beside the bed. I feel his kiss more intensely now, in the darkness of the room where his sister died. In the quiet of the house where his family died. In the stillness of the world where the life we knew before the Arrival died. He tastes my tears before I can feel them. Where there would be tears, his kiss. “I didn’t save you,” he whispers, lips tickling my eyelashes. “You saved me.” He repeats it over and over, until we fall asleep pressed against each other, his voice in my ear, my tears in his mouth. “You saved me.

I’ll do whatever you say, Cassie,” he says helplessly. His eyes shine brighter than the stars overhead. “I understand why you have to go. If it were you inside that camp, I would go. A hundred thousand Silencers couldn’t stop me.” He presses his lips against my ear and whispers low and fierce, as if he’s sharing the most important secret in the world, which maybe he is. “It’s hopeless. And it’s stupid. It’s suicidal. But love is a weapon they have no answer for. They know how you think, but they can’t know what you feel.” Not we. They. A threshold has been crossed, and he isn’t stupid. He knows it’s the kind you can’t cross back over.

His body is pressed against my back, his arm is wrapped protectively around my waist, his breath a delicious tickle against my neck. The room is very cold; it would be nice to climb under the covers, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want him to move. I run my fingers along his bare forearm, remembering the warmth of his lips, the silkiness of his hair between my fingers. The boy who never sleeps, sleeping. Coming to rest upon the Cassiopeian shore, an island in the middle of a sea of blood. You have your promise, and I have you. I can’t trust him. I have to trust him. I can’t stay with him. I can’t leave him behind.

His other hand finds my cheek, and he wipes away my tears with his thumb. The chocolate scent overwhelms me as he bends over and whispers in my ear, “No, Cassie. No, no, no.” I throw my arm around his neck and press his dry cheek against my wet one. I’m shaking like an epileptic, and for the first time I can feel the weight of the quilts on the top of my toes because the blinding dark sharpens your other senses. I’m a bubbling stew of random thoughts and feelings. I’m worried my hair might smell. I want some chocolate. This guy holding me—well, it’s more like I was holding him—has seen me in all my naked glory. What did he think about my body? What did I think about my body? Does God really care about promises? Do I really care about God? Are miracles something like the Red Sea parting or more like Evan Walker finding me locked in a block of ice in a wilderness of white? “Cassie, it’s going to be okay,” he whispers into my ear, chocolate breath.

Yo soy la humanidad, pero ¿quién es Evan Walker? Humano y Otro. Los dos y ninguno. Al amarme, no pertenece a nadie.

Ringer: "I can't abandon Zombie, not when there's a chance to save him. And there's only one way to save him: I have to kill Evan Walker.

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They were afraid the longer we pretended to be human, the more human we would become.” “And who would want that?” “I didn’t think I would,” he admits. “Until I became one.” “When you…‘woke up’ in Evan?” He shakes his head and says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “When I woke up in you, Cassie. I wasn’t fully human until I saw myself in your eyes.” And then there are real human tears in his real human eyes, and it’s my turn to hold him while his heart breaks. My turn to see myself in his eyes. Somebody might say that I’m not the only one lying in the enemy’s arms. I am humanity, but who is Evan Walker? Human and Other. Both and neither. By loving me, he belongs to no one. He doesn’t see it that way.

A moment comes in war when the last lines must be crossed. The line that separates what you hold a from what total war demands. If he couldn't cross that line, the battle was over, and he was lost.

Reading American photographs is also a way of reading the past-not just the scenes recorded and the faces immobilized into permanent images, but the past as culture, as ways of thinking and feeling, as experience

Something's wrong here, Evan. And you know what's going on. We both know you do. Why can't you just tell me? You'll trust me with a gun and to pull shrapnel out of your ass, but you won't trust me with the truth?

Cassie?” It’s Sammy, holding on to Ben, because he’s feeling the Ben thing a little more than he is the Cassie one at the moment. Who’s this guy falling from the ductwork, and what’s he doing with my sister? “This must be Sammy,” Evan says. “This is Sammy,” I say. “Oh! And this is—” “Ben Parish,” Ben says. “Ben Parish?” Evan looks at me. That Ben Parish? “Ben,” I say, my face on fire. I want to laugh and crawl under the counter at the same time. “This is Evan Walker.” “Is he your boyfriend?” Sammy asks. I don’t know what to say. Ben looks totally lost, Evan completely amused, and Sammy just damned curious. It’s my first truly awkward moment in the alien lair, and I’d been through my share of moments. “He’s a friend from high school,” I mutter. And Evan corrects me, since it’s clear I’ve lost my mind. “Actually, Sam, Ben is Cassie’s friend from high school.” “She’s not my friend,” Ben says. “I mean, I guess I kind of remember her…” Then Evan’s words sink in. “How do you know who I am?” “He doesn’t!” I fairly shout. Cassie told me about you,” Evan says. I elbow him in the ribs, and he gives me a look like What? “Maybe we can chat about how everybody knows one another later

I should have asked, I guess,” he says. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” “What?” He rotates around on his butt to face me. Me on the sofa, him on the floor, looking up. “That I was going with you.” “What? We weren’t even talking about that! And why would you want to go with me, Evan? Since you think he’s dead?” “I just don’t want you to be dead, Cassie.

There was, however, a fundamental difference - namely, that Maggie Louise, at least at that point in her life, had the ability to be satisfied, which, while different from being happy, is essential in finding contentment. In this regard, there may be two kinds of people, or perhaps, more accurately, two extremes, and if so, Agee and Maggie Louise represented them.

Margaret [Arlo] was once asked how she felt about her life over the past fifty years. The look in her eyes revealed that she understood the true question: How is it that you continued over fifty years to be as poor as you were at the beginning? ... 'I'm rich-poor,' she said. 'You see, I got my son. I got my Bible. That's all I need. I don't treasure nothin' on earth.

Aren’t you coming with us?” I feel his hand on my cheek. I know what this means and I slap his hand away. “You’re coming with us, Evan,” I say. “There’s something I have to do.” “That’s right.” My hand flails for his in the dark. I find it and pull hard. “You have to come with us.” “I’ll find you, Cassie. Don’t I always find you? I—” “Don’t, Evan. You don’t know you’ll be able to find me.” “Cassie.” I don’t like the way he says my name. His voice is too soft, too sad, too much like a good-bye voice. “I was wrong when I said I was both and neither. I can’t be; I know that now. I have to choose.” “Wait a minute,” Ben says. “Cassie, this guy is one of them?” “It’s complicated,” I answer. “We’ll go over it later.” I grab Evan’s hand in both of mine and press it against my chest. “Don’t leave me again.” “You left me, remember?” He spreads his fingers over my heart, like he’s holding it, like it belongs to him, the hard-fought-for territory he’s won fair and square. I give in. What am I going to do, put a gun to his head? He’s gotten this far, I tell myself. He’ll get the rest of the way. “What’s due north?” I ask, pushing against his fingers. “I don’t know. But it’s the shortest path to the farthest spot.” “The farthest spot from what?” “From here. Wait for the plane. When the plane takes off, run. Ben, do you think you can run?” “I think so.” “Run fast?” “Yes.” He doesn’t sound too confident about it, though. “Wait for the plane,” Evan whispers. “Don’t forget.” He kisses me hard on the mouth, and then the stairwell goes all Evanless.

That impulse took hold of me so powerfully, from my whole body, not by thought, that I caught myself from doing it exactly and as scarcely as you snatch yourself from jumping from a sheer height: here, with the realization that it would have frightened them still worse (to say nothing of me) and would have been still less explicable; so that I stood and looked into their eyes and loved them, and wished to God I was dead.

Maggie Louise sat in a hardback chair, holding her baby brother, Squinchy, and her eyes fell upon Agee. There was something about the eyes of Maggie Louise that caught him the first time they met. They were 'temperature less, keen, serene, and wise and pure gray eyes,' Agee said, and they seemed to look everywhere and see into things. To look into the eyes of Maggie Louise was 'scary as hell, and even more mysterious than frightening,' said Agee. She knew she'd like him and he her.

Just across from Bismarck stood Fort Lincoln where friends and relatives of Custer’s dead cavalrymen still lived, and these emigrating Sioux could perceive such bitterness in the air that one Indian on the leading boat displayed a white flag. Yet, in accordance with the laws of human behavior, the farther downstream they traveled the less hostility they encountered, and when the tiny armada reached Standing Rock near the present border of South Dakota these Indians were welcomed as celebrities. Men, women and children crowded aboard the General Sherman to shake hands with Sitting Bull. Judson Elliot Walker, who was just then finishing a book on Custer’s campaigns, had to stand on a chair to catch a glimpse of the medicine man and reports that he was wearing “green wire goggles.” No details are provided, so green wire goggles must have been a familiar sight in those days. Sitting Bull mobbed by fans while wearing green wire goggles. It sounds like Hollywood.

Do you believe in God, Evan?” “Sure I do.” “I don’t. I mean, I don’t know. I did before the Others came. Or thought I did, when I thought about it at all. And then they came and…” I have to stop for a second to collect myself. “Maybe there’s a God. Sammy thinks there is. But he also thinks there’s a Santa Claus. Still, every night I said his prayer with him, and it didn’t have anything to do with me. It was about Sammy and what he believed, and if you could have seen him take that fake soldier’s hand and follow him onto that bus…” I’m losing it, and it doesn’t matter to me much. Crying is always easier in the dark. Suddenly my cold hand is blanketed by Evan’s warmer one, and his palm is as soft and smooth as the pillowcase beneath my cheek. “It kills me,” I sob. “The way he trusted. Like the way we trusted before they came and blew the whole goddamned world apart. Trusted that when it got dark there would be light. Trusted that when you wanted a fucking strawberry Frappuccino you could plop your ass in the car, drive down the street, and get yourself a fucking strawberry Frappuccino! Trusted…

outside the boundaries of its own skin—these things had driven the species to the edge of destruction. Worse, this one organism threatened the survival of all life on Earth. The Silencer’s makers did not have to look far for a solution. The answer lay in another species that had conquered the entirety of its domain, ruling it with unquestioned authority for millions of years. Beyond their immaculate design, the reason sharks rule the ocean is their complete indifference to everything except feeding, procreation, and defending their territory. The shark does not love. It feels no empathy. It trusts nothing. It lives in perfect harmony with its environment because it has no aspirations or desires. And no pity. A shark feels no sorrow, no remorse, hopes for nothing, dreams of nothing, has no illusions about itself or anything beyond itself. Once a human named Evan Walker had a dream—a dream it can no longer remember—and in that dream there was a tent in the woods and in that tent there was a girl who called herself humanity, and the girl was worth more to it than its own life. No longer. When it finds her,

But there is also some empirical evidence that sheds light on the relationship between quantum principles and consciousness. Anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff claims to have found evidence that anesthesia arrests consciousness by hindering the motion of electrons in microtubules, minute tunnels of protein that serve as a kind of skeleton for cells. Hameroff speculates that microtubules could be a possible site for quantum effects in the brain,17 and his speculations have led mathematical physicist Roger Penrose to endorse the hypothesis.18 Attempts to develop models of consciousness based on quantum mechanics have also been made by neuroscientist John Eccles, and physicists Henry Stapp and Evan Harris Walker.o Walker and the experimental physicist Helmut Schmidt (the latter responsible for many of the micro-PK experiments described earlier) have also proposed mathematical theories of psi based on quantum mechanics.19 These theories rest upon two propositions that are now supported by experimental evidence: that mind can influence random quantum events, and that influence can occur instantaneously at a distance.p

Wiser and more capable men than I shall ever be have put their findings before you, findings so rich and so full of anger, serenity, murder, healing, truth, and love that it seems incredible the world were not destroyed and fulfilled in the instant, but you are too much for them: the weak in courage are strong in cunning; and one by one, you have absorbed and have captured and dishonored, and have distilled of your deliverers the most ruinous of all your poisons; people hear Beethoven in concert halls, or over a bridge game, or to relax; Cézannes are hung on walls, reproduced, in natural wood frames; van Gogh is the man who cut off his ear and whose yellows became recently popular in window decoration; Swift loved individuals but hated the human race; Kafka is a fad; Blake is in the Modern Library; Freud is a Modern Library Giant; Dovschenko’s Frontier is disliked by those who demand that it fit the Eisenstein esthetic; nobody reads Joyce any more; Céline is a madman who has incurred the hearty dislike of Alfred Kazin, reviewer for the New York Herald Tribune book section, and is, moreover, a fascist; I hope I need not mention Jesus Christ of whom you have managed to make a dirty gentile. However

If you leave without me, I’ll just follow you. You can’t stop me, Cassie. How are you going to stop me?” I shrug helplessly, fighting back tears. “Shoot you, I guess.” “Like you shot the Crucifix Soldier?” The words hit me like a bullet between the shoulder blades. I whirl around and fling open the door. He flinches, but stands his ground. “How do you know about him?” Of course, there’s only one way he could know. “You read my diary.” “I didn’t think you were going to live.” “Sorry to disappoint you.” “I guess I wanted to know what happened—” “You’re lucky I left the gun downstairs or I would shoot you right now. Do you know how creepy that makes me feel, knowing you read that? How much did you read?” He lowers his eyes. A warm red blush spreads across his cheeks. “You read all of it, didn’t you?” I’m totally embarrassed. I feel violated and ashamed. It’s ten times worse than when I first woke up in Val’s bed and realized he had seen me naked. That was just my body. This was my soul. I punch him in the stomach. There’s no give at all; it’s like I hit a slab of concrete. “I can’t believe you,” I shout. “You sat there—just sat there—while I lied about Ben Parish. You knew the truth and you just sat there and let me lie!

No one lives on Hobe's Hill today. Only a few abandoned shacks remain. The land has greatly changed. When Walker Evans took his pictures, it was a grand, open place, full of cotton. Now forest has reclaimed the land. There is still some field, planted in soybeans, and this provides some sense of how things once were. These soybeans, as well as those down by the main highway, were planted by Joe Bridges and his son Huey. Amid the soybeans, the ground is stony, and the water-starved beans grow with more courage than success. This same dust was breathed by Fred Ricketts as he plowed behind the seat rump of a mule fifty years ago. He and his children stared at this ground as they chopped weeds and, later, hunched over the long rows to pick. They knew this same sun, this silence, the awful loneliness of this red plateau. The heat dulls the senses. Even sulfur butterflies, those neurotic field strutters, are slothful. The whole South seems under a hot Augustan pause--all the highways blurry beneath the burden of hear, be they four-lane marchers, two-lane winders, single-track dirt poems. From this hill, it's hard to imagine life going on in this hear anywhere across the six hundred miles of the South, in any of those terrible little towns...

Sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, with dark eyes framed by black plastic eyeglasses, haircut and shave long overdue. He felt familiar. Then I realized I was remembering a man in a Walker Evans photograph taken during the Dust Bowl.

I'd sit beside him at the white table, and together we would stare into the photographs of Walker Evans, William Eggleston, Robert Frank, and Diane Arbus. "This is all America," Greenland would say, whispering excitedly in a rare display of respect for decorum. "We need a car, Corn Dog. We have to go out there and see some of this stuff and some of these people. This is where all your music comes from.

Dr. Evan Harris Walker goes further. In a paper, "The Compleat Quantum Anthropologist" (American Anthropological Association, 1975) Dr. Walker — a physicist, not an anthropologist, by the way — develops a neo-Bohmian Hidden Variable model in which "consciousness" does not exist locally at all but only appears localized due to our errors of perception. In this model, our "minds" do not reside in our brains but non-locally permeate and/or transcend space-time entirely. Our brains, then, merely "tune in" this non-local consciousness (which now sounds even more like Huxley's "Mind At Large").

Walker Evans said it was ‘a pet subject’ of his — how writers like James Joyce and Henry James were ‘unconscious photographers’.

Strange how deeply they reside and how one memory pulls out the next like links in a chain, until at times you find that even the subtlest thoughts you had decades ago are sill hidden somewhere inside of you.

We are separate - utterly separate. We do not even share the same space or time with others.

The picture was dizzying, stupefying - a Picasso collage pasted together from a collection of shattered ideas.

Alabama Tenant Farmer Wife, by Walker Evans (version published in Let Us Now Praise Famous Men). From a print in a private collection, trimmed under Evans’s direction and signed by him in 1971.

They would break his body. Crush his will. Dissect his mind down to the last synapse. The undoing of Evan Walker had begun

Thinking about the bacon- the potential of bacon- gives me hope. Not all is lost if bacon isn't.

The individual most responsible for the triumph of the documentary style was probably Roy Stryker of the government’s Farm Security Administration (FSA), who sent a platoon of famous photographers out to record the lives of impoverished farmers and thus “introduce America to Americans.” Stryker was the son of a Kansas Populist, and, according to a recent study of his work, “agrarian populism” was the “first basic assumption” of the distinctive FSA style. Other agencies pursued the same aesthetic goal from different directions. Federal workers transcribed folklore, interviewed surviving ex-slaves, and recorded the music of the common man. Federally employed artists painted murals illustrating local legends and the daily work of ordinary people on the walls of public buildings. Unknowns contributed to this work, and great artists did too—Thomas Hart Benton, for example, painted a mural that was actually titled A Social History of the State of Missouri in the capitol building in Jefferson City.16 There was a mania for documentary books, photos of ordinary people in their homes and workplaces that were collected and narrated by some renowned prose stylist. James Agee wrote the most enduring of these, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, in cooperation with photographer Walker Evans, but there were many others. The novelist Erskine Caldwell and the photographer Margaret Bourke-White published You Have Seen Their Faces in 1937, while Richard Wright, fresh from the success of his novel Native Son, published Twelve Million Black Voices in 1941, with depictions of African American life chosen from the populist photographic output of the FSA.

James Agee and Walker Evans had collaborated on Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, and it had opened a window for me into the life of the sharecropper. “Dixie” was like a musical version of that book.

For Newton and the scientists of his time, God had set up the universe and set it in motion. Newton's laws simply governed the running of the universe. That is how Newton saw the workings of God and the workings of God's universe.

The beauty lies in the mind. If the world is beautiful and the laws of the universe sublime...Must there not be somewhere something beautiful that still remains behind, lingering, waiting to be found?

Table Whiskey: The House Bottle I have some whiskeys that I always keep in the house. Blended Scotch: Johnnie Walker Black or Compass Box Great King Street, sometimes Dewar’s. Bourbon: Jim Beam Black, Evan Williams, or some Very Old Barton if I’ve been to Kentucky recently. Irish: usually Powers. Canadian: Canadian Club or VO. And in the summer I’ll pick up a handle — a 1.75-liter big-boy bottle — of Pikesville rye for highballs.

Credo di poter dire oggi che ci siano due nuovi concetti che da allora sono diventati emblematici del mio rinnovato alfabeto fotografico: il senso dell'infinito come oggetto, come spazio osservato, che sta fuori e al di là della macchina fotografica, e che io non avevo mai rappresentato prima, e la pratica della contemplazione, che induceva uno sguardo lungo, uno sguardo iperanalitico che, per vedere e rappresentare quello che mi stava davanti, aveva bisogno di un tempo dilatatissimo. Ho scoperto "la lentezza dello sguardo". Uno sguardo lento, come era stato per Eugène Atget e Walker Evans, uno sguardo che mette a fuoco ogni cosa, che porta a cogliere tutti i particolari, a leggere la realtà in un modo assolutamente diretto: quindi il grande formato, il cavalletto, il ritmo rallentato, la luce così com'è, senza filtri, guardare e basta. In contemplazione davanti a questa meraviglia della natura ricca e mutevole. La fotografia rischia persino di essere qualcosa di estraneo, che infastidisce, ma che si usa perché è l'unico mezzo possibile per raccontare ad altri quello che si prova, si vede e si comprende. E in questo senso è anche un documento: di quello che si è visto.

a new suit of overalls has among its beauties those of a blueprint: and they are a map of a working man.