History divulges itself eons after its initial births. These chunks of the past, sliced or whole, are found wedged between the pages of sooty, timeworn books, at the bases of battered crates, mobbed by our elders, and in waning, wrinkled photographs.
Every now and then, the past achieves the most remarkable magic trick – it voyages through human vessels into the future, where it once again establishes itself. When you’re convinced all of the long-eared creatures have been plucked from the hat and the magic show is reaching its close, history reaches to the very bottom of the rabbit hole and, with great ease, conjures the most exquisite creature of all: the scorching phoenix.
History is not always exhibited by the most monumental moments of the human experience – however, it is always molded from a vault of rectitude. That aforementioned phoenix, summoned from the deepest dimension of the hat, isn’t the conclusion of a great war, a revolutionary invention, or a generational movement – it is simply the rawest form of a human being’s essence, that which has subsisted and persevered through all of life’s outlandish and grim moments. The phoenix implants itself into the depths of people and, when it finally has the center stage it seeks, it executes the most extraordinary and explosive performance of all – the one that never ceases to live on in those people it sanctifies. To witness this rawest manifestation of the human soul, in all of its natural glory, is so very exceptional, spectacular, and consecrated.
These echoes of the past, in all of their unadulterated beauty, are among the most astonishing and sorrowful phenomena we, as human beings, are given the prodigious fortune of undergoing.
This brings us to March 17, 2017.
Essay and photograph are the exclusive creations and property of Ami J. Sanghvi.
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