His big obsession, Milan had told me at some point, was postcards. He liked sending postcards, not receiving them. In fact, he always refused to give me his own address. I don’t have one, he said jokingly, or on second thought, perhaps seriously. He said: I live on the lungo drom, which in Romany means the long road, with no set destination and no turning back. He said: I travel in a caravan of one. He said: On the road, for my friends, I leave a trail of patrin, which in Romany means signs placed along the way, like a branch broken in a certain fashion, or a handful of twigs tied up in a blue handkerchief, or gota bones sticking out of the ground. He said: Postcards are my patrin. EDUARDO HALFON, THE POLISH BOXER, 2012
There are too many images, too many cameras now. We’re all being watched. It gets sillier and sillier. As if all action is meaningful. Nothing is really all that special. It’s just life. If all moments are recorded, then nothing is beautiful and maybe photography isn’t an art any more. Maybe it never was.
The American wilderness, which Sal sings throughout On the Road, is not a destination but a way of seeing. John Leland, Why Kerouac Matters, 2007
Innocence of a postcard… from Martin Parr Lecture at Society for Photographic Educators, Chicago, 2013
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