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 (en passant-s)

It's one person, or two, it's a few people all in all. They are ordinary people. In the eyes of all, they are nobody or nearly. And then, for some, they are or have been, everything that someone can be. What difference does it make to the captured image of them? This person, loved or just bumped into, will be, sooner or later, anonymous. Who remembers a particular instant when their photo was taken? Who even knows where the photos are kept that we have of him? Where do they sleep before being thrown out and by whom? Who might say one day, amongst the children of our grandchildren, who are we upon seeing a photo found in a drawer?  How long will our image resist another's desire to throw it away? I don't really know what pushed me to take those peoples photograph, the desire to hold on to them an instant before they disappeared perhaps. No doubt I found them perfectly in place, in that instant, for all time. They are just ordinary people. I see them in a passing quality, that is to say, by only passing by, to capture them whilst en route.  I think definitively it is their fragility that touches me and I don't know how to tell them other than by fixing them as I saw them. 

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