“Outwardly I was normal, but those images were always with me and in my dreams. Even now I can see them — the man who had tried to escape the burning barn, the concentration camp. I majored in sociology in college, then spent a few years traveling around Europe singing for my supper. I’d spend the days wandering around, searching for adventure, meeting all kinds of eccentric characters and loving their stories. When I ran out of money, I’d sing again. I settled in New York, got a job, tried to figure out what I wanted to do. Something meaningful, not just work.
“I was starting to worry. Then one day I woke up and wanted a camera. I borrowed one. I had never taken a picture before, and as soon as I held it in my hands, it felt good. I never had the sense of holding a machine. I read the instructions, went out into the street, shot two rolls, had them developed. I was thunderstruck. It were as though I had been taking pictures for years, but in my head, without a camera. ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘I’m a photographer.’ What a relief.
“Photojournalism was always it for me. Those pictures in the attic had set my course. Those, and all the characters I’d met. To tell a story in the blink of an eye, have it printed so that millions of people could see it and wrap their fish in it, to have my pictures reach people the way those Life magazines had reached me, now that was doing something.” | Jill Freedman
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