Looking through my old photos, I am reminded of how much I love Polaroids. As the NYT art critic Michael Kimmelman wrote, "Mystery clung to each impending image as it took shape, the camera conjuring up pictures of what was right before one's eyes, right before one's eyes. The miracle of photography, which Polaroids instantly exposed, never lost its primitive magic. And what resulted, as so many sentimentalists today lament, was a memory coming into focus on a small rectangle of film... Glossy talismans in unreal colors, as ephemeral as breath on glass, they wreaked all the more havoc with our emotions for being so unassuming and commonplace." These ordinary pictures are snatches of Lily's childhood preserved on unassuming small rectangles of film, but they are worth more to me than all the treasures in the world.
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