Lingering memories of insignificant moments, things, views, have always intrigued me–a lunch of meatballs, outside on the grass, at summer camp when I was 12, sitting with the “wrong” boy; the houses beyond my Aunt Harriet’s swimming pool and terraced backyard in the Valley; a poster in the bathroom at a video store in Amagansett: a casual drawing of beachgoers and underneath an in-joke caption in giant type: Summer People (Some Are Not).
I make my own version of this wordplay sometimes: Summer Pluots (Some Are Not–they’re apriums). My dear and much-missed friend Abby Winograd liked this sort of wordplay. And my sister Babette likes it too–ask her about the animals in the simile, ushering March in and out.
All photos are memories, speeding from the 1/125 of a second creation into the past. But not all (of my) photos are pictures, by which, here, for the sake of my joke, I mean true to my intentions and/or surprising.