These sepia-toned photos are some of the few possessions she managed to escape with, passed on to Kac. He calls them time capsules for the memories they hold. Viewers at home see Kac before the photos, sitting on a medical examination table, his bare leg waiting to receive a bio-implant that will allow him to be registered with an American company as the owner of himself. TV cameras crowd in, their lights bright as the halogen noon above an operating table. The moment passes.
Time is always a division.
Yet the presence of the photo exists within our moment as well, and serves to knit the two times together. The people are posed too formally, grandmother wears her best dress even as she straddles a motorcycle, one leg exposed. Yet at the same time, looking at that leg, we can't help but see a family resemblance to the leg of the artist exposed on the table. Looking from the face of the sepia-toned woman to the living face of the artist, we see continuation. And we realize that if, as Heraclitus noted, no man can step in the same river twice, it is equally impossible to be wholly original.