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.