

It’s not a sentimental picture, but the gestures are intuitive, eloquent, easily read-an elemental semaphore of the human capacity to comfort.A great photo booth with bright photo props will give you lasting memories of your dog birthday party or puppy shower.
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The women clasp hands the man has placed his free hand on the shoulder of the woman in the middle. All have one hand covering their respective faces against the smoke and ash, and the other one free to touch the person next to them. It’s hard to tell whether they are friends or have just met one another. But, in one of the most striking photographs, three fleeing figures-two women and a man, in high relief against a gray background-do occupy the central space. The images suggest the jagged, asynchronous timelines by which people try to reinstate their normal lives. They capture people in different attitudes and poses and orientations vis-à-vis the trauma of the event, gazing past one another, deftly negotiating space the way that urban dwellers always do.
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They are telling you, ‘This is the world as we see it,’ and therefore they had to reduce photography to something that had one meaning and one meaning only.” A number of Peress’s photos for the 9/11 series embody his more decentering approach. Peress said that in the “Here Is New York” project, and in his own work, his goal had been to get away from the aesthetic that magazines such as Time and Life exemplified in the nineteen-sixties, in which photography “was essentially used as a tool of authority and power. As the critic Susie Linfield has written about 9/11 photography, “There is little evidence of the dead, because most were burnt into dust: Ground Zero was a mass grave but one without many bodies.” The destruction of the Twin Towers was an epochal tragedy for which photographers, like Peress, had to find a different semiotics of loss.


In a cataclysmic scene where you expect to see dead bodies and wounded people, there are none in these pictures. Everywhere, clouds of dun-colored smoke, shot through with the yellow light of a clear September day, swathe the ruins, creating a new and foreboding sort of weather. Medical personnel in hospital scrubs and surgical masks stand around, waiting to help injured survivors, of whom there are none in sight. Ranks of cars are indiscriminately covered with a coating of gray ash on a street rendered unrecognizable. The photos Peress took that day (some of which were published in The New Yorker at the time) convey the sense of 9/11 as what he calls “an inconceivable event,” an unmooring, transitional moment when we “encounter historical systems that are beyond our comprehension or knowledge, that we have a problem placing in a continuum of our experience of history so far.” Firefighters spray water into a mass of rubble so pulverized that no sense can be made of it. There were very few people there.” The only people he recalled seeing at first “were a group of about six firemen, who were trying to do the impossible.” I arrived as the second tower was falling. He said, ‘You’re crazy, you’re going to die,’ and I said, ‘O.K.,’ and I bypassed him. I got to the other side as the second plane was hitting the second tower, and I continued toward the scene. I parked the car and walked across against the traffic of people fleeing lower Manhattan. “I drove to the Brooklyn Bridge-there was no way to get across by car. He had a contract with The New Yorker, and the magazine’s editor, David Remnick, phoned as Peress was getting ready to head toward the site. “I looked at it, and it was evident that it was not only a major incident but that it was not an accident it was an attack,” Peress recalled. The photographer Gilles Peress, who has chronicled war and its aftershocks all over the world, was at home in Brooklyn on the morning of September 11, 2001, when he got a call from his studio manager, telling him to turn on the TV: a plane had just hit one of the World Trade Center towers.
