“My father and I share certain wrinkles. Genetics govern their imprint, but their presence delineates our age and experience. Twenty-five years ago, on a trip long since forgotten, my father and I shared a hotel room. In the morning, I photographed him packing his suits. Looking at the print now, I recognize the three familiar creases that line his neck and realize I am fast approaching his age at the time of the photograph.
The details of his flesh meant nothing to me then. I was interested in the play of morning sunlight against the bed and the wall. The correspondence between the three dots of reflected light and, if you look closely, the three water spots on my father’s shirtsleeve is one of those lucky accidents of photography that reveal themselves only later, like a clue embedded in a novel, or in this particular instance, an ellipsis marking time between that morning and now, his body and mine.”
-Doug DuBois, …all the days and nights