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Richard Falco
www.falcophotography.com
I remember the morning of September 11 as if it was yesterday. It was a beautiful fall day. The sun was shining as I sat out on my deck drinking coffee. The phone rang. It was my wife on the other end screaming hysterically, “Did you see what happened?”
“No, what happened,” I replied.
“Look on the TV. Look on the TV,” she yelled. She was calling from her office at work.
I ran to the TV and watched with shock as one of the World Trade Towers was on fire after having been hit by a plane. Moments later another plane crashed into Tower 2. I could not believe my eyes. I told her to come home and raced down to my office. As a photojournalist, my only thought was to get down there. I needed to tell Black Star, my photo agency, I was going. It was then that the towers began collapsing. In my heart, I knew the world had changed forever.
I could not get into the city on the first day because security shut down all entrances. On day two, I was told that the Press was being allowed in from several points. I immediately grabbed my cameras and raced into New York. My agent had already informed me that I was on assignment for TIME Magazine. I made my way downtown to find that no one was allowed below 14th Street unless you had Press credentials. As I began walking downtown my feet were becoming covered in dust that would eventually cover my entire body by day’s end. When I reached Canal Street, everyone was stopped. No one was allowed to proceed further, even if you were press. Chaos was everywhere. Smoke and dust filled the air. What made the moment surreal was that it was still a beautiful fall day. The sun was shining but as you moved closer to Ground Zero you were suddenly engulfed in a thick gray fog. My goal was to get down to where the Trades fell and see what was happening. As evening approached, I took advantage of the darkness to make my way to Ground Zero. It was nothing like anything I had ever seen before or could even imagine. That said, my job was to document what I was witnessing. As a journalist, you learn to flip the switch that says now you are a professional - get to work. As I meandered about the site, I began to photograph what was in front of me. It is difficult to explain the emotions we feel as journalists in a situation like this. Your heart is pounding as your head keeps saying, work.
Sometime after midnight, I headed to a friend’s home uptown where I planned to stay. When he opened the door to let me in his apartment, I must have truly unnerved him. I did not realize it, but I was completely covered in dust. He made me take off my clothes in the hall before I entered. Too fatigued to talk, I crashed on his sofa. Early the next morning, I headed back to Ground Zero. Once again, I had to sneak in because the police were not allowing access to the site. I did this every day until Friday, periodically getting my images back to Black Star. By Friday, I needed to get out of the city. I was exhausted and my emotions were frayed and were nearing their limit. I drove back home that evening, showered, and sat in silence with my wife.
On Sunday, I returned to the city. By that time, the National Guard had cordoned off lower Manhattan, so I began to document the impact on the New Yorkers who remained in the city.
I made my way to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on the Upper Westside when I heard that there was to be a memorial service. The service began with a solemn procession slowly moving down the aisle to the altar. As they moved, a group of altar boys carrying lanterns of burning incense led the procession. I watched as the smoke from the lanterns rose into the air, climbing toward the vaults of the cathedral’s ceiling. Again smoke. My heart froze for a moment. Enough, I thought. No more smoke. However, in that same instant, the voices of the choir rose into the air. Beautiful and mighty, the sound surged upward surpassing the incense and reaching beyond the confines of the cathedral to something more infinite – more absolute. A momentary sigh of relief filled me. After witnessing days of smoke rise from the wreckage downtown, for the first time in days, I saw good instead of evil. Once again, I realized that even the shortest glimpse of good in times of tragedy can plant a seed in which hope will rise.
I left the city that day and returned home. For most of the next week, I stayed close to my children who were very young and did not understand what had just happened.
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