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I went to see an exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of art on Vermeer, and one of his most famous paintings, The Milkmaid, which has not been in New York City since the World Fair of 1939. This time, the painting was brought to New York City to commemerate the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson's voyage to what is now New York City. The painting, I also learned, is beloved by Americans and Dutch alike, which would explain the large crowds.

 I woke up today at the crack of noon. Determined to not let the rest of my day go to waste I threw on some clothes, grabbed a book, and was out of the door within 10 minutes. Walking out onto the street I was met by the most lovely weather--sun shining, cool breeze blowing, and not a cloud in the sky. I strolled down Henry Street, which leads me to this great park on the water nestled between the manhattan and brooklyn bridges. It's autumn now, but on my way, I came across all the signs of spring.

I had heard about the catastrophes of Hurricane Katrina. I knew that people had to leave their homes and that the water level had been so high that people couldn’t drive or walk safely in the streets. I had heard all this, but until last night, I had never actually seen photographs of the devastation that occurred in New Orleans.

 I've come to a conclusion in regards to the content of this book. It seems after all that the book is, in fact, far from a reflection on photography as it claims to be. Instead I view it as a hidden autobiographical piece of literature. Barthes seems to talk about himself a great deal and refuses to take on the perspective of someone other than him. For instance, when he describes photography he limits himself to undergoing the photograph or observing the image, both roles he has played.