Journey

this is a journey through the time by these photos of my family [my father side], from 1915/20 to 1975.
some of them, those took before the IIWW, are sort of treasures since they got saved from the war and didn't get lost during the evacuation when my father and his family had to leave the town cause of the wild bombing.
in fact the town here was a military target due to the presence of the weapon factory and it got bombed by americans and english first and then by germans too so people went to the mountains or to the country to save themselves.
there could be many stories about these photos, few of which i know. but i won't tell none of them: just look at the faces and imagine.

--

another text piece, yes.
made with photoshop;
i adjusted the colors so they look almost like the originals [shitty scanner over here] >.<
i put them in chronological order and in there there are parents, relatives, unknown people and my parent's beloved dog.
watercolor brushes [barely visible] are by *mcbadshoes
font used: minion pro
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and once again with this quote by Delmore Schwartz, yes
but while watching at these photos the sentence "time is the fire in which we burn" keep resounding in my head, so true, so true. i could go on ages talking about what does it mean to me, instead i post it here again for you to read:


<sub>Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day
by Delmore Schwartz


Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn . . .)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.</sub>