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  • What draws us into some faces more than others?

    Is it the smile or the frown or the wrinkles or the eyes that magnetize our attention and forge a memory with a longer shelf life.
  • I realize now that I have long been a collector of faces. The beauty of a distant land or my own home state may captivate me, but a region's facial landscapes become the landmarks that I remember.
  • I'm drawn to the imperfect face more often than not. Given a choice between airbrushed smooth or wind-chapped worn, I'll choose weathered skin every time except when I look into the mirror. Lacquered under SPF 60, I prowl across deserts in thirsty lands looking for rugged faces marked by time and the elements.

    "You have a good face," I told an Aboriginal woman on a train ride through the center of Australia.

    "I'll trade you," she answered.
  • When I stare at these faces, I remember their stories. The grandmother proud of her grandchildren and disappointed a bit when the toddler hid her sweet face. The girl who convinced me to follow her deep into a village so I could meet her blind grandfather. I gave her a small bottle of lotion to rub on her wind-chapped cheeks, but when I turned to look back at her from the top of the trail, I saw she was slathering it on her grandfather's hands.
  • In a crowded world full of passersby, photography tethers me for a moment and sometimes forever to people with familiar stories of hope and fear and sadness and happiness.
  • Some people call it taking pictures of strangers. I call it crowdsourcing for common ground.
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