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.

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