Diane Keaton's Bookshelf
PAGE 3
Photographs, Twenty-Five Years
By Keith Carter
I have an old dog named Josie. Last week she had to get some tests. Her liver-enzyme count was high. Cushing's disease was mentioned. Even though she is a big, nasty, blonde shepherd mix, I saw her essence in Keith Carter's portrait, Lost Dog. His dog is black and maybe not so old, but in that face with its predominant nose much too close to the lens, in its blurry soulful glare, its loyalty, its sweet trust, I saw Josie. I saw Josie and me. I saw our 12 years together and my dread of losing her. I saw that her loss will be a sadness I will carry with me until I die. I saw that our special life together was revealed in a photograph by a man I didn't know, whose subject was a dog I'd never seen.
By Keith Carter
I have an old dog named Josie. Last week she had to get some tests. Her liver-enzyme count was high. Cushing's disease was mentioned. Even though she is a big, nasty, blonde shepherd mix, I saw her essence in Keith Carter's portrait, Lost Dog. His dog is black and maybe not so old, but in that face with its predominant nose much too close to the lens, in its blurry soulful glare, its loyalty, its sweet trust, I saw Josie. I saw Josie and me. I saw our 12 years together and my dread of losing her. I saw that her loss will be a sadness I will carry with me until I die. I saw that our special life together was revealed in a photograph by a man I didn't know, whose subject was a dog I'd never seen.
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