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In the picture, he departs from this earth like an arrow.
Although he has not chosen his fate, he appears to have, in his last instants of life, embraced it.
He shot ten or fifteen of them before he heard the rumbling of the South Tower and witnessed, through the winnowing exclusivity of his lens, its collapse.
He was engulfed in a mobile ruin, but he grabbed a mask from an ambulance and photographed the top of the North Tower "exploding like a mushroom" and raining debris.
He does not appear intimidated by gravity's divine suction or by what awaits him.
There was, instead, that feeling of history being manufactured; although the office was as crowded as he'd ever seen it, there was, instead, "the wonderful calm that comes into play when people are really doing their jobs." So Drew did his: He inserted the disc from his digital camera into his laptop and recognized, instantly, what only his camera had seen—something iconic in the extended annihilation of a falling man.
He didn't look at any of the other pictures in the sequence; he didn't have to.
His jacket was spattered with Kennedy's blood, but he jumped on a table and shot pictures of Kennedy's open and ebbing eyes, and then of Ethel Kennedy crouching over her husband and begging photographers—begging him—not to take pictures. Although he has preserved the jacket patterned with Kennedy's blood, he has never not taken a picture, never averted his eye. It is not even up to him to distinguish if a body is alive or dead, because the camera makes no such distinctions, and he is in the business of shooting bodies, as all photographers are, unless they are Ansel Adams.
Indeed, he was shooting bodies on the morning of September 11, 2001.
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"You learn in photo editing to look for the frame," he says. That picture just jumped off the screen because of its verticality and symmetry.