My favorite spoon is one that my wife’s father found, as a kid, on a beach in Sicily, at the end, or perhaps right in the middle of world war II. This spoon travelled half the world to arrive in Venezuela, with him, and then with my wife, to the US.
Of the few dozen spoons that we own, this one’s my favorite. It’s an antique, of course, and for me it’s very special because it belonged to a soldier. It’s made of what must’ve been the best stainless steel available at the time, and great pride must’ve gone into making it and equipping a soldier with it so he’d be able to eat with dignity in the midst of what was one of the lowest points humanity could’ve reached during the twentieth century.
On the back of the handle, it’s engraved with its manufacturer’s name and the winged logo of the third reich with the swastika underneath.
Today is the Day of Holocaust Remembrance and I thought it was appropriate to write about this spoon because, as I said, this is a spoon that I not only use, but I revel in seeing it in my kitchen drawer. I find it delightful that today I can open that drawer, grab that spoon, and enjoy my favorite cereal with it. And this sentiment is so strong because I am a Jew. I am, precisely, what the people and ideas behind this spoon most wanted to eradicate from the face of the earth. Every time I use this spoon it’s as if I’m telling those ghosts and those ideas “You wanted me gone, but here I am. You aren’t. All that’s left of you is this worthless spoon.”
To put it mildly, a critique is a daunting event. It involves countless hours of preparation, each and every minute of which is filled with heavy doses of self-doubt, trepidation, and uncertainty. Unless you can predict the future or read minds, there is very little (if at all, if you’re lucky) that’s objective about them. If you don’t believe this, pick ten random images from your archives, show them to a few random people (especially strangers), write down the results, and tabulate. Even if there is a semblance of consensus, chances are that doing the same exercise with professional critics will yield completely different results. Perception and opinion are as personal as they can get. Young critics will view things differently than older, more seasoned ones. Education, culture, and experience also play important roles on what someone finds laudable. In essence, it’s a crap-shot, and no amount of planning will yield reproducible results. 
Looks like tonight’s the night when I’m finally going to stay up until morning to get the site back up. When I decided to take it down, maybe on February 27 or 28, little did I know that my father would die on the morning of March 1. I had to up and leave for Venezuela with almost no time to prepare, only to return about four weeks later to countless loose ends and fires to put out. The web site would have to wait a bit longer. Perhaps I should’ve posted this note six weeks ago, but, to be honest, as much as I’m committed to my photography, it was one of those things that would have to wait.
Trying to figure out what kind of photographer I am, while [also trying] to get work done and preparing for a photo-critique whose sole requirement is to bring three (yes, three!) photographs was like the perfect storm to turn these past few weeks into the weeks from hell (did I mention that I also have a family?).
The only people I’ve ever shown my pictures to are my wife, a few friends, and then, just like that, without anesthesia, to some 50 unknown fellow photographers and four critics, back in October in B and H’s Event Space.
