I walked with my camera through the empty streets toward

Central Park that resplendent September morning, eager to photograph strollers.

Later in the day in my darkroom, I made a

set of small proof prints and pasted them into an

album. I write these thoughts in my journal where I’m

master, just as I’m master in the darkroom, stirring my

prints in the magic developing bath. I shuffle like cards

the lives I deal with. Their faces stare out at

me. People who will become other people. People who will

become old, betray their dreams, become ghosts, like faded negatives.


Paraphrases from The Year of Living Dangerously by David Williamson, Peter Weir, and C.J. Koch and Berggasse 19: Sigmund Freud’s Home and Offices, Vienna, 1938: The Photographs of Edmund Engelman.