Things are still a bit crazy here, though calming down somewhat. And now that I have a chance to breathe a little, I thought I'd make one final posting about the magical events of a 11/4/2008. I do this not to prolong an event past it's expiration date, like a half gallon of old milk, but because the event itself was so unique that it deserves some extra time.

I witnessed a neat moment at the Lincoln Memorial on Election night (and into the next morning, actually.) That much you know already. I first wrote about it here and then in a little piece on the New York Times op-ed page two days after the election.

But that moment has now taken on a life of its own. First, shared among the 26 folks I counted on the steps of the Lincoln that evening listening to Barack Obama give his victory address in Chicago, and then handed down to friends and strangers alike via the internet, newspapers and even the school bus stop. It defies gravity: the moment seems to go, even as it hangs suspended in time. The beautiful cover of this week's New Yorker illustrates that suspension perfectly.

It's been a fun process to watch, in part because everything is so different now. For fifteen years I worked as a news photographer, where the entire point was to have your work disseminated widely. Each morning, "play" reports were tallied and if your competitor (AP, for instance) had the majority of front page hits from a particular news event, you were in the doghouse.

But the opposite has been the case with this Lincoln photo, which many folks have labeled one of the "quieter" pictures from election night. This image has touched people even though it really hasn't been widely disseminated. Other than a small incarnation in the New York Times, the photo has still managed to find its way around the block, so to speak, mostly via blogs and emails.

Some history: Back in 1991, I took a boxing photo that received widespread play. It was my first title fight in Vegas and I happened to get lucky as Evander Holyfield knocked Buster Douglas out in the third round. I remember walking back to the trailer after the fight and people were telling me what a great job I had done. Neil Leifer, arguably the greatest sports photographers of all time, told me I had "done good, kid." And the next morning, as I waited in the Las Vegas airport to fly back to L.A., I couldn't help but smile as every newswpaper in sight had my photo on the front page.

Back in those days the only people who could send a photograph from one city to another were a bunch of wire service photographers scattered around the world. I know, it sounds looney tunes. These days, of course, some 17 years later, every five-year-old kid in America can do it on their iPhone. My own daughter Alexandra just startled me the other night by asking, "Which printer should I print this Polly Pocket picture to, daddy?"

The world is saturated with information now. Being away from digital information is hard--try not looking at your email, computer, or Blackberry for more than an hour or two. Try not tuning to CNN or MSNBC for twenty-four hours. Hell, even I take photos on my phone when I don't have a camera handy. Removing oneself from this degree of media and technological saturation requires a healthy dose of focus.

This is what makes the events at the Lincoln Memorial astounding to me, even a week and a half after the fact. How is it possible, I keep thinking, to have a private event in the nation's capital on the very spot of Martin Luther King's speech, in the shadow of Abraham Lincoln, on the night America elects its first black president? Where were the people? Where were the media?

The answer, of course, is that they were a few blocks away, at the White House, partying like it was 1992. Which was a pretty cool place to be, I'm sure. On a night of incredible symbolic importance in this metropolis of news, only 26 people thought to wander over to the Lincoln Memorial. And maybe that's why the whole thing still amazes me. Forget about what happens if a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear. Having such a moving moment all to themselves on election night? To me, it's like going to Time Square on New Year's Eve and finding 14 people huddled in the cold. As a photographer, you'd probably mumble "priceless" to yourself and start shooting.

Anyway, I wanted you guys to have a chance to see some of the other photos from that night. Like the Lincoln image, there are no crowds--unless four counts as a crowd in your book--and there were no signs or banners. Just quiet.

Back in 1992, I drove across country with my sister Jennifer. We were in a noisy soft top Jeep Wrangler. One afternoon, feeling nostalgic for a time we weren't even alive, we drove on a part of the old Route 66, somewhere outside Seligman, Arizona. Stopping to take a picture of the beautiful vista, I paused momnetarily.

"Jen, do you notice something?

"What?" she asked.

"The silence. There's no sound!"

We had come from Los Angeles, and being on this deserted stretch of road, with not even a bird chirping or tall grass swooshing, was striking. We stood there for a minute and took in the absence of sound, though remembering it all these yeasr later makes me laugh. How do you record the absence of something?

That's what being at the Lincoln felt like.

Matt

p.s. We've made a gallery of all the images from that night, finally putting all the pictures into one place. You can view them here. To purchase a signed and dated 11 x 14 fine art print of the Lincoln Memorial photo, go here.

To read Connie Schultz's very sweet piece, click here.

And some interesting blogs:

PDN, with some interesting campaign picks.

Zoom in Online, which highlights some of the memorable photos from this campaign.

Scene on the Road, by legendary Philly Inquirer photographer Tom Gralish.

The Newseum's collection of front pages.