Over a decade old now, this poem dates to 1993 and an art display at the South Bank Center in London which was a comparison of war phogographs from the 1930s to the current day. I can't remember the precise image (nor the photographer) who inspired this poem precisely, but it struck me just how the suffering of those people in the images was being used to sell the image itself, to sell the papers who had originally shown it and was even now being used to sell the display I was seeing. Somehow it seemed basically obscene and yet fascinating; and it is this dichotomy that drives all art.
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