A few days ago at dusk, I walked along the
Fußgängerzone on the northern boundary of the White House and saw him standing. This man, holding a simple wooden cane in his left hand and dressed in dark earth-tones, stood at attention. As I walked towards him, he lifted his right arm in one fluid motion, frozen in military salute...facing the presidential estate. He was a Veteran for sure...his gray hair was long, but not
un-kept...his glasses unfashionable and thick. Without a word, he withdrew his tribute. Lowering his right arm, he right-faced and began walking West. His gate was steady, but the cadence punctuated by presumptive injuries...a
kinesic memoir written upon battle-hardened
cartilage, sinew and bone. I wondered who he was...where he had served...and why he returned to this place....
This face without a name made me think of other names that I had photographed a few days ago. These other
cognomina seemed incognito, at first. Then I realized the brilliant interplay, which occurs at this monument...
noms de guerre, given a face...with each visitor's reflection. I then looked around and wondered where they would build the next monument, in which direction would it face...the monument for the soldiers that died in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sighed, and snapped the picture.
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