Photographs testify to the relentless effacements of time. I say "inevitably" because the photographer has little to say about it. No matter what the conceptual intent of the photographer - whether it be "serious" image-making or family snapshots - the camera renders, first and foremost, and with indisputable sufficiency, the details and lineaments of its subject: a smooth, fresh, laughing face, the sleek angularity of a new building, a dotted veil worn by a woman coming out of church. Years later - when the young face is wrinkled and the modern building looks corny and nobody wears veils anymore - these photographs tell a story. And who could have guessed what that story would be? The melancholy of Time inheres in photographs, in the resemblance that no longer resembles.