Hebdo

I flew to Paris the morning of the Hebdo shootings. There was a school I had planed to visit for my series Picturing Autism, a photography project documenting autism in countries around the world.  I landed at the start of a nightmare that continued for days, with manhunts and shootouts. Nowhere felt safe; no one felt safe. Schools remained closed, priorities changed, and contact was reserved for family and friends. I was suddenly alone—an outsider looking in. From this distance I saw the story I wanted to tell. The, "Je suis Charlie” social media campaign typified the current wave of hashtag journalism. Never was it more apparent than during the Paris March, that news was being generated by the people, from the streets, in real time, from their point of view. People everywhere participated in and recorded history, selfie-style, as their own correspondents. At the end of the march, at the margins, were the news cameras on cranes looming above the crowd like dinosaurs. They no longer fit. After the March, Paris was eerily quiet. The streets were nearly empty. It was like being trapped in a strange and scary dream.

I flew to Paris the morning of the Hebdo shootings. There was a school I had planed to visit for my series Picturing Autism, a photography project documenting autism in countries around the world.  I landed at the start of a nightmare that continued for days, with manhunts and shootouts. Nowhere felt safe; no one felt safe. Schools remained closed, priorities changed, and contact was reserved for family and friends. I was suddenly alone—an outsider looking in. From this distance I saw the story I wanted to tell. The, "Je suis Charlie” social media campaign typified the current wave of hashtag journalism. Never was it more apparent than during the Paris March, that news was being generated by the people, from the streets, in real time, from their point of view. People everywhere participated in and recorded history, selfie-style, as their own correspondents. At the end of the march, at the margins, were the news cameras on cranes looming above the crowd like dinosaurs. They no longer fit. After the March, Paris was eerily quiet. The streets were nearly empty. It was like being trapped in a strange and scary dream.

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