Today there was a reception to view photography books purchased in Elizabeth's name for the library at Packer.
Books by Lisette Model, for instance.
And Meatyard
Kertesz
Erwin Olaf
And pictures of New York by
Ruth Orkin
And one by Klein of Tribeca, after snow
I felt very elegiac, and overwhelmed by the emotion of returning to the school, the first time since the memorial service over three years ago. So many of her teachers were there, people who mattered deeply to Elizabeth's education, people who taught her what she should be. People like Eric Baylin, who read this poem:
Elizabeth's Books
Through her eyes a photograph unfolded
Through her gaze surface grays and blacks began to breathe,
gave way to stories.
Faces came alive
Through her careful looking.
And so these books - Elizabeth's - are filled with surfaces to be
plumbed through quiet gazing.
For years beyond our own a string of curious minds will find in these
new ways of looking, new ways of thinking
And through their eyes and in that trail of small epiphanies, lighted
moments stretching past our view,
She will be gazing still.
Eric Baylin
April 22, 2010
Showing posts with label Packer Collegiate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Packer Collegiate. Show all posts
Books at Packer
There will be a fund to purchase photography books at Packer Collegiate in Elizabeth's name. Eric Baylin, her photography teacher, who was so influential in getting her to think of what it takes to make a good photograph, will help with selection.
Labels:
Eric Baylin,
Packer Collegiate,
photography books
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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.
> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry





