No camera is ever neutral. The framing is a decision. Angle is a decision. Distance is a decision. So are the pauses that occur before or after a gesture, as well as lightness, tone, and texture. Every decision conveys a message. You can alter the story by changing the lens. You can delete a fact by cropping it by one inch. You can extract a different truth out of time by holding the shutter for a little longer. A scene can appear tense, frigid, or tender all at once. It depends on how I choose to demonstrate it and how I meet it. Benjamin writes about performing in front of the camera as well. When I take pictures of people, I notice this. They are forced to act by the camera. They repeat, turn, and hold. For the lens, they put on a version of themselves. This is even more powerful in a movie. Instead of a room full of bodies, the performer performs for the device. Later on, the viewer becomes familiar with the camera's position and motion. Not only do we observe the world, but we do it via a tool that molds its possible appearance. He ends with a warning about politics. Fascism turns politics into an art-like spectacle. It floods the public with grand images and sound. It asks us to enjoy power as a show. The other path is to make art serve politics, not the other way around. For me, this raises an ethical task. If images invite public reading, then I must guide that reading with care. My captions, edits, and sequences matter. They can open space for thought, not close it. Atget’s lesson is still fresh: a photo is not just what is seen. It is how we ask others to see.