Photography, alone of the arts, seems perfected to serve the desire humans have for a moment - this very moment - to stay.
The photograph keeps open the instants which the onrush of time closes up forthwith; it destroys the overtaking, the overlapping, the metamorphosis of time.
Of all the means of expression, photography is the only one that fixes a precise moment in time.
If you see something that moves you, and then snap it, you keep a moment.
All broadcasts on Periscope need to be archived for playback permanently, unless the broadcaster chooses to delete the recording. So many treasured moments have been shared on Periscope only to vanish a day later.
The preoccupation of the novelist: how to capture the living moments, was answered by the diary. You write while you are alive. You do not preserve them in alcohol until the moment you are ready to write about them.
Like the diminishing beauty returns for a facially paralyzed Botox addict, the more forcefully we attempt to stop the passage of time, the less available we are to the very moment we seek to preserve.
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment?
To capture sound is to isolate a moment, canonize it, enter it into the historical register.
Like most photographers, I try to capture a moment in my work.
