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My father was famous for his photographic memory. He was in the OSS. They trained him to be captured on purpose and to read upside down and backwards and commit to memory every document in Germany he saw as he was being interrogated - every schedule on every wall. So, that photographic memory somehow made its way to me when I was young.

I have a photographic memory.

I'm blessed with a great memory. To be honest, a lot of times, being on my own at such a young age, my memories were all I had. I didn't have many pictures.

While all the other kids were out playing ball and stuff, I used to stay in my room and imagine that there was a camera in the wall. And I used to really believe that I was putting on a television show and that it was going out to somewhere in the world.

My memory is basically visual: that's what I remember, rooms and landscapes. What I do not remember are what the people in these room were telling me. I never see letters or sentences when I write or read, but only the images they produce.

My father taught me photography. It was his hobby, and we had a small darkroom in the fruit cellar of our basement. It was the kind of makeshift darkroom that was only dark at night.

I've been a photographer all these years... I haven't been in my own darkroom for 10 years.

My own memories are packed tightly away. I very rarely bring them out for viewing.

I barely remembered my father; I'm confused between genuine memory and the few photographs that survived.

There must be a little memory bank, a library or storage unit in my brain, that just tucks away memories of other people. I suck in as much of life as I can. I don't do it deliberately - I'm just curious. Dangerously so. I collect visual and aural patterns, physical human patterns, from experience.