Quotes About Photographs

The pictures slipped past again and I kept looking at them. Some of the scans were sepia pictures, going back a hundred years; some were black-and-white; some were oversaturated, from the sixties and seventies. Many were recent, direct digital. Finally

Next to it were five potted photographs of the Lisbon girls, pinned with rusty tacks. We didn't remember putting them up, but there they were, dim from time and weather so that all we could make out were phosphorescent outlines of the girls' bodies, each a different glowing letter of an unknown alphabet.

Sometimes we found photographs of beautiful young girls, or handsome young men. There were pictures of old men, who looked like apostles, and old ladies with faded smiles. In some, one could see children playing in a park, babies crying, or newlyweds kissing. On the reverse of these were some farewells, oaths, or religious passages scribbled in handwriting obviously shaken by fear or the motion of the train. The words were often washed off by the morning dew or bleached out by the sun.

This man's name was Stalin. In the portraits and photographs he had a kind face and compassionate eyes. He looked like a loving grandfather or uncle, long unseen, wanting to take you into his arms. Gavrila read and told me many stories about Stalin's life. At my age young Stalin already had fought for the rights of the underprivileged, resisting the centuries-old exploitation of the helpless poor by the pitiless rich.

During the winter when the weather is too poor to work outside, I do use drawings and photographs, but I change my work so it is not just a time and place study.

When I was a graduate student in computer science in the early 2000s, computers were barely able to detect sharp edges in photographs, let alone recognize something as loosely defined as a human face.

The ostensible subject of my photographs may be motion, but the subtext is time. A dancer's movements illustrate the passage of time, giving it a substance, materiality, and space. In my photographs, time is stopped, a split second becomes an eternity, and an ephemeral moment is solid as sculpture.

I collect rare photographs... I have two... One of Houdini locking his keys in his car... the other is a rare picture of Norman Rockwell beating up a child.

Tirámos fotografias desse tempo em que os filhos de um e de outro com respectivas proles estiveram reunidos em férias na Itália. Fotografias que agora preenchem vazios.

If you wanted to reassemble Elijah's afternoon, you could probably do it by stringing together all the photographs and all of the frames of videotape that he walks into. Always a passerby, he is immortalized and unknown.

Mädchen Two never accompanied us to the beach and rarely posed in any of the family photographs. Once her puppyhood was spent, we lost all interest. "We ought to get a dog," we'd sometimes say, completely forgetting that we already had one.

Our team also began taking multiple photographs and we videotaped the entire area including the wary bulls. They gazed suspiciously at us as we roamed the area, systematically checking for any additional unusual radiation.

As I got older, I got more Victorian and morbid. I got into things that circled around death, like skulls or morgue photographs or handwritten diaries. They can be almost haunted with all this history, and you project onto it and then it gets onto you.

I have a rule that I don't review shows from photographs or from video. I certainly might go back and look at photographs and look at video to remind myself of something or for personal information. But I never review from that.

Appropriation is the idea that ate the art world. Go to any Chelsea gallery or international biennial and you'll find it. It's there in paintings of photographs, photographs of advertising, sculpture with ready-made objects, videos using already-existing film.

This is what I like about photographs. They're proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect.

Like any collection of family photographs, it was a random selection that told only fragments of a story. The real tale would be revealed by the pictures that were missing or never even taken at all, not the ones that had been so carefully framed or packed away neatly in an envelope.

No I'm worrying about people taking pictures and putting them on Facebook. That crap never dies. Kind of like you Mikey.

THE OFFICE FELT SUMPTUOUS EVEN IN NEAR DARKNESS. It reminded me of certain photographs by Edward Steichen: velvet shadows deepening into moody gloom, here and there a form suggested by a reflection of light on a radius of polished wood, the mysterious gleam of Tiffany glass in the pendant shade of a lamp not lit, the room implied rather than revealed, yet known as well as if it had been enraptured by sunshine instead of barely kissed by the ghost light of the haunted city beyond the windows.

The women were blank, shining areas with photographs of sad girls floating in them.

It's the middle of winter, more and more snow is falling on us, and my bookcases are collapsing underneath the snow, the snow is burying them slowly, while we all await deportation, and the photographs on the bookshelf are getting wet, pictures of all the people I have loved, and I wipe away the snow and shake the photographs, but the snow keeps falling, my fingers are already numb, and I have to let the snow bury the photos.

The full story of all this, replete with numerous photographs, was first published in 1986 by anthropologist Randolfo Rafael Pozos as The Face on Mars: Evidence for a Lost Civilization.

Something happens between a novel and its reader which is similar to the process of developing photographs, the way they did it before the digital age. The photograph, as it was printed in the darkroom, became visible bit by bit. As you read your way through a novel, the same chemical process takes place.

Photos sat on the piano and shelves bulged with books, testament to a life well lived.