Robert Frank
[Photographer and filmmaker, b. 1924, Zürich, Switzerland, lives in Mabou, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada, and New York.]

 A message picture is something that’s simply too clear. 
 When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice. 
 I envy [my wife’s] freedom to sit down in front of a blank page with no machine to get in the way. That is freedom. Photography is not freedom. 
 I hate to be photographed. I can’t stand to be pinned in front of a camera. I do that to people. I don’t like it done to me. 
 I’m always looking outside, trying to look inside. Trying to say something that is true. But maybe nothing is really true. Except what’s out there. And what’s out there is always changing. 
 The truth is somewhere between the documentary and the fictional, and that is what I try to show. What is real one moment has become imaginary the next. You believe what you see now, and the next second you don’t anymore. 
 The kind of photography I did is gone. It’s old. There’s no point in it anymore for me, and I get no satisfaction from trying to do it. There are too many pictures now. It’s overwhelming. A flood of images that passes by, and says, “Why should we remember anything?” There is too much to remember now, too much to take in. 
 It’s not the decisive moment. It’s not the beginning or end. It’s the middle. It’s more like a question. 
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