I don’t see the past when I look at these photographs. I see freedom, youth, maybe, an energy around these pictures, taken about my age, I feel a connection; there is no nostalgia, I feel no nostalgia — some sentimentalism, again, but a living sentiment: “The past did not exist at all. Not even at all,” or, rather, the American, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
There is a jolt the viewer should feel of self-creation, the desire to, like The Band, in the basement, find history and sing it out across the American landscape with its mountains and rivers… and the myth of the lone man driving across forgotten roads, re-writing his past with every second, or third, glance.