F
ox Talbot���s inaugural image of an ancient Lacock
Abbey window is a powerful visual metaphor for the very
process he invented and engaged: photography, with
its accompanying camera and negatives. He gave us,
literally, a window to a world heretofore uncaptured, its
closest peer the domain of the plastic
arts. But it all began with the human
camera, the eye gazing out from a
window.
Gazing from the outside in, windows
are conduits to the soul of a house.
From the inside, only recently,
apertures that would eventually be
occupied by modern windows were
open, secured only by cloth, wood or
iron. The advent of glass revolutionized
building, providing in some instances
usurious opportunities for the tax
collector.
The once smallest of glass panes have evolved into
massive sheets, resulting in huge window walls afforded
by the deft use of steel. The view or lack thereof from
a window is an age-old lament. The window is the eye
of the camera, of the room. Standing in a room, our
window on the world, our eyes, often regard a chamber���s
window.
