
I'm back from a bout of working on Camera / Iraq, which has attracted a surprising amount of attention. Public Journalism Network wrote that "Camera / Iraq is a site every journalist, academic, and citizen interested in photojournalism should be watching."
When I was a kid, my phone number was "675." You'd pick up the handset and an actual person would answer "Operator." [A female voice, but occasionally a male supervisor, and that male voice would paralyze you for a second.] Then you'd say your number, and the Operator would patch you through.
We had two phones in our house, and when I was longing to stay over night at my grandmothers on the other side of our little midwestern town, I'd sneak up to the phone in my parents bedroom and call her in a whisper: "Grandma, would you call mom and ask her if I could stay over night tonight?" She'd always say yes. By the time the call came through to my mother, I would already have my pajamas and tooth brush in a brown bag rolled at the top so it would wrap around my bike handle. Twelve blocks in a small town to my grandmothers.
When there, I'd get showered with cookies and milk, a crisp sheet over the sofa to sleep on, and if it was a Friday night, a chance to sit with my grandpa, who for a while was the county sheriff, and his pal, a retired local judge, as they smoked cigars and watched the "Friday Night Fights" on early '50's TV. Those nights were like passing the peanuts at a smoke-filled "sit down" with the Midwestern Moffia.
What I like so much about the illustration above is that the person studying this moment of techno-etiquette actually underlined the good parts. We've always been ernest about interactivity.













Repetitive, deadpan documentary projects like Ed Ruscha's 










