I photographed traces of daily activity in my parental house. The strange thing is that all my family members have different stories about these spots. And most of the time nobody knows what happened.

I collated this collection of photographs of people who were photographed with their first car.

trong>The people on the Bridge An odd planet, and those on it are odd, too. They're subject to time, but they won't admit it. They have their own ways of expressing protest. They make up little pictures, like for instance this: At first glance, nothing special. What you see is water. And one of its banks. And a little boat sailing strenuously upstream. And a bridge over the water, and people on the bridge. It appears that the people are picking up their pace because of the rain just beginning to lash down from a dark cloud. The thing is, nothing else happens. The cloud doesn't change its color or its shape. The rain doesn't increase or subside. The boat sails on without moving. The people on the bridge are running now exactly where they ran before. It's difficult at this point to keep from commenting. This picture is by no means innocent. Time has been stopped here. Its laws are no longer consulted. It has been relieved of its influence over the course of events. It has been ignored and insulted. On account of a rebel, one Hiroshige Utagawa (a being who, by the way, died long ago and in due course), time has tripped and fallen down. It might well be simply a trifling prank, an antic on the scale of just a couple of galaxies, let us, however, just in case, add one final comment for the record: For generations, it's been considered good form here to think highly of this picture, to be entranced and moved. There are those for whom even this is not enough. They go so far as to hear the rain's spatter, to feel the cold drops on their necks and backs, they look at the bridge and the people on it as if they saw themselves there, running the same never-to-be-finished race through the same endless, ever-to-be-covered distance, and they have the nerve to believe that this is really so. ___________ I love this poem because for me it describes photography itself.