* For a brief explanation about this project, please click here.
Good to see you again sir.
Again? Have we…have we met before?
No sir, I just remember you from your photograph.
Oh. The uh-right, you’ve seen my picture because of the, okay. I get it.
Yes. And how can I help you?
I’m here to collect those photographs actually. Jennifer Cross.
And you are?
Darren! Almost got it. How was your vacation Darren?
Yes. How did you-
I love Hawaii.
Okay, this is a little strange. You shouldn’t, uh, you shouldn’t really be looking at our photographs.
But how can I determine if they’ve been suitably processed?
No, I get that, but you shouldn’t be looking at them.
How can I avoid looking at them sir?
You just can. I don’t know. Just don’t look at them. Don’t interpret the photographs.
Sir, I see a photograph and instinctually contextualize it. Like words. I cannot not read a word.
No. No. This isn’t cool. I’m not okay with you investigating my life.
A photograph is a memory. A citation. A bookmark placed on a point of significance during one’s life.
A photograph is a personal memory man. It belongs to me. Not you.
Well, that’s where our opinions differ sir. You handed this memory to me. And I made it so.
What? What are you talking about?
My machine and I brought your memory into the physical world Darren. And in doing so it became my memory too. Such are the consequences. These are our photographs. Our memories.
I want to speak to your manager. This is just completely inappropriate.
How is Jennifer?
Don’t ask about her. Don’t even mention her. You don’t know her.
I’m afraid I do. She likes olive oil on her bread and she’s learning the Ukulele. Correct? Of course I am.
Give me my photographs you fucking creep!
They’re my photographs too. Haven’t you been listening?
I’m calling the police, man. This is fucked.