I’m just wowed by this story I’ve come across. It is something I’ve always wanted to do, to take a picture everyday and, after some time (say a month, a year, etc.) compile them. I think one can express so much about himself and so much can be told with little pieces of life over a sustained period of time. This guy did it for 18 years until the day he died.
For some reason, I think it’s in the social nature of human kind to feel attraction for other’s lives, or maybe it’s just me; anyhow, this kind of examples always touch me, especially when there is a tragic ending, as it is the case (that’s another side of human nature I don’t understand but it’s there, the relevance tragedy gives to everything it touches…). I like thinking what I was doing during the story was happening and finding links between the story and myself, even though I don’t know the person at all; in this case, I haven’t been able to resist to check what he was doing the year I was born and the vintage shots of New York City, a place I know and have been to, taken in a different time and from different perspective, feel just special.