They [photographs] teach you about your own unraveling past, or about the immediacy of
yesterday. They show you what you look at. If you take a photograph, you've been responsive
to someting, and you looked hard at it. Hard for a thousandth of a second, hard for ten minutes.
But hard, nonetheless. And it's the quality of that bite that teaches you how connected you were
to that thing, and where you stood in relation to it, then and now.
(Joel Meyerowitz)

 I find it strangely beautiful that the camera with its inherent clarity of object and detail can
produce images that in spite of themselves offer possibilities to be more than they are ...
a photograph of nothing very important at all, nothing but an intuition, a response, a twitch
from the photographer’s experience.
(Joel Meyerowitz)

[the small camera] taught me energy and decisiveness and immediacy … The large camera
taught me reverence, patience, and meditation.
(Joel Meyerowitz)

What I think is so extraordinary about the photograph is that we have a piece of paper with this
image adhered to it, etched on it, which interposes itself into the plane of time that we are actually
in at that moment. Even if it comes from as far back as 150 years ago, or as recently as yesterday,
or a minute before as a Polaroid color photograph, suddenly you bring it into your experience.
You look at it, and all around the real world is humming, buzzing and moving, and yet in this little
frame there is stillness that looks like the world. That connection, that collision, that interfacing,
is one of the most astonishing things we can experience.
(Joel Meyerowitz)

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