Recently, I stumbled upon photo albums that my father once put together. Flipping through them, I suddenly vividly recalled my childhood admiration for his shots. These were not just photographs of people.
The portraits there were part of the landscape. And what about the entire card index of birds with captions, taken with a photo gun - frames you wanted to peer into.
I was fascinated by that red room. Mysterious, semi-dark. I remember walking in there - and my father's voice would say: "Quick, close the door."
Flipping through these albums now, I suddenly realized: my love for photography begins right there. I somehow absorbed these images, this gaze - and carry it through my life. I still lovingly keep his photo gun and photographs. The "Zenit," unfortunately, didn't survive - my sister and I carelessly left it in the forest as children. We really upset Dad then: for him, that camera was a memory of his student years.
But it seems the most important thing still remains. It remains within me.