By Steve McCurry
Afra Bin Dhaher
Muqdisho, Banaadir, SO
Ph: Nicola Prisco
Time for introspection. Self Portrait #1.
His nose-pin <3
Taj Mahal 19th April 1961.
I finally left for college last week, but before leaving, my grandmother took out this box full of old photographs. Shockingly enough, the photographs were so well preserved they could live for a hundred years more. She kept showing me old photographs, telling me about the people in the pictures that were complete strangers to me. She showed me photographs of her as a child, her mother, her grandmother. Then she picked up this photograph and stared at it for a while; probably thinking about my grandfather. “This was 8 days after our marriage, your grandfather took me to the Taj Mahal; we were so happy then..”. I can see her almost tearing up but I know she is holding back all of it. I turn the photograph around, and find a handwritten calligraphic note written in punjabi by my grandfather adressed to her. She had never seen it and she never intends on telling me what it means.
I see photographs of my grandparents at different ages, and I draw a narrative back and forth in my mind from the time they first met, first fell in love, got married, had children, saw them graduate, had grandchildren. I run this narrative trying to make sense out of lives around me. Trying to make sense of time, trying to make sense of love. There are somethings that never die. After we are done looking at the photographs, she takes them; wraps them up in a silk linen cloth and into an old wooden box where they will probably lie for the next 5o years.
W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage (via electricgrapevine)
My idols are dead and my enemies are in power.