Our photographs are not memories; they are advertisements, billboards for a life we are too preoccupied to live.

We have become archivists of the self, I thought, curators of a life half-lived. Each countless photograph of a wonder, of dinner, of a view, of our children, of the utter banality of our everyday lives, was not a memento, a way of remembering the things we did, but instead evidence of the poverty of our engagement with the present moment.

Today, everything is about speed and real time. We are no longer concerned with real space.