There is the hot summer. There is London and the brown waters of the Thames and Theresa May, having taken a holiday break from the Brexit-commotion. There is my son and there is me, our third summer in London – the warmest since the ‘40s. It is a wake-up call, people say – but will it be remembered as such? Will the menacing heat burn itself sufficiently into our memory? On our way to the exhibition we talk about such things. About what will happen to photography in a time where it no longer represents truth.
The story of the history
My son is fourteen now and the wars are on his mind – World War I and World War II. His historical interest opens up a passage for him into the games I don’t play, the concepts I’m unfamiliar with or mispronounce. He spent the spring months selling toilet paper in the neighbourhood to earn money for a school excursion with «the white buses» to Auschwitz and Treblinka. He understands the scope of fake news. Pictures can lie. There is a difference …
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