In 1981, my mother completed a camera strap for herself. An excellent amateur photographer, she took albums and albums of pictures as I and my sister grew up, so that Rolleiflex cameras and the strap above have for me the incredible resonance that the iconography of childhood retains: the illustrations from a bedtime book, a favorite stuffed animal, etc.
When I arrived in New Orleans on Saturday she gave it to me. I found it a more moving exchange than I probably should have: I was touched, excited, a bit honored even, although she’ll laugh at that.
I love having this strap, nearly as old as I am, holding the Nikon; she used to sing “Kodachrome” to me, too, I think unaware of its drug reference, and I have that terribly rare and happy sense that something good in my family now expresses itself through me.
