Family no number 1965

Editor: Here we have Robert Frank's gelatin-silver print "Family no number," taken in 1965. It's presented as a strip of film, or perhaps several strips layered, showing different moments—a family gathering, a lonely hotel room... There’s something melancholic and fragmented about it. What strikes you most about this work? Curator: You know, I find myself wondering about what Frank considered worthy enough to keep—why these frames survived the edit, so to speak. Each image is a whisper, some clearer than others. It's like a disjointed poem about fleeting connections, wouldn't you say? This man wasn’t necessarily trying to show beautiful things or conventionally engaging things. Rather he presents to us something much more poignant. What would be revealed, do you think, if we took all the discarded scraps that this composition tries to hold together? Editor: I guess I hadn’t thought about the selection process so much, just the overall feeling. But it’s true; this arrangement tells a story as much as each individual photograph does. Maybe of missed opportunities, or forgotten moments. Curator: Precisely! And aren't we all collages of missed opportunities and fleeting encounters, dear friend? Each of us an unedited roll of film, projected onto the screen of existence. Editor: It definitely gives me a lot to think about, particularly regarding the photographer's role in shaping narratives through images. I suppose it’s up to us to develop it in the darkroom of our minds. Curator: Exactly! And perhaps to then, find new images within these. I dare you to find what resonates most—trust your eyes.