2012, from Autobiography, in my iPad application Horvatland
When I re-examine my contact sheets of 50 or 60 years ago, on which I can still see the red pencil strokes by which I marked the shots I selected, I have the impression that the way I compose my photographs hasn’t changed. What changed is the way I now interpret what I photographed: a woman’s hairstyle or the design of a car, that in 1960 seemed just run-of-the mill, may now look astonishing – or at least out of a different age. Or a model’s way of crossing her legs, that I had found more attractive than her stereotyped poses, may have seemed so shocking to the junior fashion editor in charge of my sitting, that I didn’t dare submitting the shot to her boss. This endeavor – to re-examine and re-consider old contact sheets – has been both exhilarating and distressing. Just as to unlock long closed drawers, to sort out ancient souvenirs or to unfold faded letters. Or possibly even more, because photography is so irretrievable. Unearthing these “decisive moments” of 50 years ago, I cannot help telling myself: “I should have moved a little closer”, or “… a little further off”, or “I should have clicked a second earlier”, or “… a second later”. But another question that occurred to me, and that intrigued me even more, was about my own identity: is this me, who in 2012 re-examines these photographs, the same who took them in 1960? Does the present Frank Horvat have the right to modify what the past one selected or rejected?