The last book I read about photography included a chapter on how we take pictures to give ourselves the impression of being able to stop time. There was a sobering passage about life being a march towards our inevitable death, which would have been much more depressing if I hadn’t found that part of the book so illuminating in the way it explained to me why I take so many pictures of my children as they seem to move ever faster through their fleeting childhoods, and why I find some of their portraits so unsatisfactory, while others, though far from perfect, are just right, in that they capture how my boys really are, which of course only means how I imagine them to be.
This is one of those. Oh, would you look at that face? And that little foot? Kills me.