I must start by saying that none of these photographs are my own; they are part of an ongoing archival project I have undertaken to clean, restore, scan, and preserve vintage Kodachrome slides. I purchased these slides for a few dollars, but they have given me a priceless glimpse into the memories of the photographers who took them. Through these photos, I peer back in time into the lives of everyday people who captured moments of simple beauty, of love, of family, of companionship, and of deep humanity. To put it plainly and truthfully, it is an exercise in photographic voyeurism. I stare and study their expressions, their clothing, the details in the scene, and in vain imagine what it might have been like to stand there, to step into their frame and thus into their world. As I gaze upon these photos I am struck by the liminal realization that, although from my perspective the people and places in them are frozen in time, every child who appears has now grown up, perhaps with children of their own, who might even have children of their own, but also that just as many of the faces who appear in these photographs are no longer with us. There is a sadness in the knowledge that inevitably all of these slides will be lost to time, the emulsion will decay and mold, and the images on them will fade into nonexistence. Most, if not all, of these faces will be lost to time. I suppose I, too, am stubbornly grappling with my own eventual transition into nonbeing by revisiting these old forgotten memories. But this is not a morbid or morose task. Quite the opposite, I take great pleasure in preserving humanity in all its forms and emotions, full of stories beyond my wildest imagination. Ultimately, I choose to toil away at remembering in a world that is increasingly reliant on my ability to quickly forget and move on. This is my quiet rebellion.