Time has no memory. The fact that one image is made today, and another was made a year ago, or two, or ten doesn’t matter to ‘time’ at all. They are all the same. So, if the onlooker returns to the same spot and creates another image there, only the looker really knows the spirit of return and having returned to it. To all else, who might ever view these ‘memories’ of the onlooker, even these words are nothing but a footnote, and really, when you get down to it, not a very important one. The onlooker can of course play a little bit. The equipment can be changed up, and the result will be a distortion—or an adaptation—of the vision of wherever the looker had once stood. These themselves will easily give the impression of history—time’s immodest patina that paints the world in the palettes of Diana, Holga, Nikon, and Leica, and so forth.
In the prehistoric images first drawn upon the walls 32,000 years ago of the Chauvet Cave, identically drawn animals painted near and atop other images of identically drawn animals, one, two, or five thousand years apart, were drawn upon the curved inner stone walls almost exactly as they had been one, two, or five thousand years the last time they had been drawn there before. In other words, nobody erased them. And thousands of years later, somebody else came, and sometimes drew the same images again beside them. And then this happened again. The enormity of this can only really start to make sense when one considers that all the ages that have passed since the time of Ancient Greece and now are like a blip between one painter’s hand in a cave and another’s thousands of years later.