This is the third and last book in a row of three, all showing blurry and noisy photographs unconnected. While working on these three books my parents passed away and my brother died tragically and so I inherited all their property and possessions, which included a photographical archive of more than sixty-thousand pictures.

A book should not have more than sixty-thousand pages, because otherwise it would be to thick and heavy to be used useful. To make it lighter, a selection has to be made, and this selection has to be combined with all the new choices of moments worth capturing in the near future. When this future has come to pass, I will write more about this book.

The book is aptly named The Sound of Light. The greek word for light is photos, and graphein derives from an onomatopoetic greek word meaning "to write", thus describing the sound of a needle scratching script (also onomatopoetic words) into stone (krf, scr). And as the needle of a record player brings back sounds which died away long ago, a photograph recalls a tiny fraction of once visible time. So the eye of the beholder hears light which has already faded, a physical event transmuted into a memory.

The last picture I found in my photographical heritage and scanned for this book shows the family of my grandfather on the beach on the island Sylt. The picture was glued onto the back of another picture and this had been put into an album, so the backside picture could not be seen for several decades.

I have no idea who took this picture in the summer of 1931 and of course I do not know what my young father and my grandparents are looking at, but to me it looks as if the delusory mirage of a bright future dawned on their horizon. The future, though, is always now, just one moment later it is not what it used to be.

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