The day ceases, the people disappear, and memories diminish. So we try to capture, encapsulate moments in photographs, in our desperate attempt to preserve a moment in at point in time. Recorders we all are; either in words, images or numbers. A personal historian, that each of us has a lifetime to record, to accumulate the wealth that is their own lives. For only in these moments can we tell ourselves, that we indeed exist, and have existed before. To have a page torn out, or to have not a page written at all – we cease to prolong our own story, a story that continues long after our own death. Because we cannot be seen, felt, observed, or spoken to, we seek to immortalize ourselves in these little vignettes; an impression, a painting, a letter, a novel, an exercise book.
But all this is futile; one can only mean something for so many people. In the end, all this records, memorabilia found their way in dusty bookshelves, in opened boxes, between pages of a book, in car boot sales – only to be marveled at for a while, then the wonderment ceases. One cannot know further than what is presented. For after all, how can one build a whole’s person life, out of a single object?
More importantly, how can one sum up another’s character, in a single meeting?
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