Photography. Diary. Life.

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Rachel Citron - 'Eckleburg, 2014'

Rachel Citron - 'Eckleburg, 2014'

Rachel Citron - 'Little Red Houses, 2014'

Rachel Citron 'Little Red Houses, 2014'

Rachel Citron - 'Siblings on a Saturday Morning, Grandma's, 1992'

Rachel Citron 'Siblings on a Saturday Morning, Grandma's, 1992'

Rachel Citron - 'My Mother on her Mother's Bed, 2014' 

Rachel Citron 'My Mother on her Mother's Bed, 2014' 

Rachel Citron - 'Flowers and Wires (Granny's House), 2014' 

Rachel Citron 'Flowers and Wires (Granny's House), 2014' 

Rachel Citron - 'Granny at Home, 2014’

Rachel Citron - 'Granny at Home, 2014’

Doug DuBois - 'Spencer Finds A Rake, Syracuse, NY, 2008'

Doug DuBois - 'Spencer Finds A Rake, Syracuse, NY, 2008'

Doug DuBois - 'My Sister Lise, Christmas Eve Far Hills, NJ, 1984'

Doug DuBois - 'My Sister Lise, Christmas Eve Far Hills, NJ, 1984'

samhclarke:
Doug DuboisFamily Photos, 1984-1992
"My father and I share certain wrinkles. Genetics govern their imprint, but their presence delineates our age and experience. Twenty-five years ago, on a trip long since forgotten, my father and I shared a hotel room. In the morning, I photographed him packing his suits. Looking at the print now, I recognize three familiar creases that line his neck and realize I am fast approaching his age at the time of the photograph."The details of his flesh meant nothing to me then. I was interested in the play of morning sunlight against the bed and the wall. The correspondence between the three dots of reflected light and, if you look closely, the three water spots on my father’s shirtsleeve is one of those lucky accidents of photography that reveal themselves only later, like a clue imbedded in a novel, or in this particular instance, an ellipsis marking time between that morning and now, his body and mine."
-Doug Dubois, in the afterword for All the Days and Nights (Aperture, 2009)

samhclarke:

Doug Dubois
Family Photos, 1984-1992

"My father and I share certain wrinkles. Genetics govern their imprint, but their presence delineates our age and experience. Twenty-five years ago, on a trip long since forgotten, my father and I shared a hotel room. In the morning, I photographed him packing his suits. Looking at the print now, I recognize three familiar creases that line his neck and realize I am fast approaching his age at the time of the photograph."The details of his flesh meant nothing to me then. I was interested in the play of morning sunlight against the bed and the wall. The correspondence between the three dots of reflected light and, if you look closely, the three water spots on my father’s shirtsleeve is one of those lucky accidents of photography that reveal themselves only later, like a clue imbedded in a novel, or in this particular instance, an ellipsis marking time between that morning and now, his body and mine."

-Doug Dubois, in the afterword for All the Days and Nights (Aperture, 2009)

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