|# 8 Calcutta, India, 1989
I feel closer to this picture than any other. The indentation
mark the man on the cycle rickshaw has on his bare skull is the
same I have in my head and my father, who was also bald, had
in his. Is this a sign of family or racial kinship -is he a distant
cousin of mine? After all, many Iranian Jews went to India on
business as my father did to Turkey, or does the mark suggest
The consuming, lyrical shabbiness of this photo reduces me
to tears. The thin white paint on the back wall spills all over
the darker base. The torn loose piece of tarpaulin hanging from
the back of the folded hood of the rickshaw. One wheel is flat.
The sweetness of the pocket flaps of the man's shirt, bent and
sticking out like a kid's hair. The tangled loose wire twisted
around the armrest to keep it under control.
The origin of every photo moves inexorably
away as one is looking at it, but what if the picture itself
is an image of dissolution? What is the result of this double
whammy, what perception, psychic barrier does it break? ...