I can not escape Joseph Roth, nor would I wish to.
His vision is my vision, which is one of streets, people, streets without people, and people
would only do that.
Joseph's vision is mine because he helped create it with his camera, because I am on
the same world as he, in the obvious sense of skies and geography, and in the half habitual,
semi-obligated ages dated by the more dense markers of ego, extremism, and furious races
towards self-immolation.
Like his camera, so obviously tending to our appeals to the infinite by freezing a moment
of it, we are bonded together in the yin and yang of click and observe, in the church swift
genuflections and curses to the Lord of all time.
Informed by this oddness, I shouldn't have been so surprised to see the picture of Berlin
traffic from the 1930s staring back at me.
Roth wrote about it and someone took a picture of it.
These have become among good-stepping believers, chancellors, and people that just happened
to be there, the big issue, or at least one of the big issues of a city swinging between
red and black, and without an unobstructed road to do it in.
In a telephonic exhibition on the 100 years of the Leica camera, I cannot escape Bruce
Davidson, unknown photographers, and unfortunately the work of Julia Margaret Cameron.
Schools of left-leaning snappers saying what podcasters say today, this can change the
world.
Maybe it can.
Photographs of Spanish peasants, walls, destroyed buildings, war, conflict, New York
slums, refugees, photographs of themes, conscience, and just sheer timing, dwarves, street gangs,
people and parrots, on beaches, schoolchildren on the bus, the transients, or Joseph Kudalka.
And I leave you now with the believers, chancellors, and people that just happened to be there on
YouTube, Instagram, and Twitter, for the very day of the 8-point Scorsese, the testimonial
of those that see and report it on the video blog.
This next part is sponsored by Cuckold and Beer.
I'm going to unleash the warrior.
Cuckold.
