| Abstract: | Abstract When I met Aaron Siskind in his home in Pawtucket, a short, stocky figure slowly greeted me with an infectious smile. He was open and gracious about the interview—he did not mind the recorder and seemed very pleased by my interest in his life and work. Files, boxes and prints surrounded us in his dining room, all carefully labelled and organized. He was conscious, and proud, of his place in history. In conversation, he proved to be, at once, both prickly and charming, and his deep, rumbling laughter punctuated much of our conversation. He admitted to a faulty memory in 1989, his 86th year. But we talked for two hours and even then I was sorry to leave with so much more to discuss |
