I worry that the Holocaust is becoming steadily more calcified in Western historical memory, as distinct from its more turbulent shape in contemporary Polish and Ukrainian collective memory. Western European and American peoples stand to learn a great deal from the cultural complications of the Holocaust in the places where it actually occurred, the ways in which the genocide of the European Jews remains very much an unfinished historical phenomenon. Where it happened it is, to a large extent, still happening. It persists as a complex of destructive forces rippling forward in time, its “lessons” contradictory and hotly debated. And I take a lesson from the challenges, the perils of lesson-making. To me, approaching the Holocaust justly means resisting the urge to treat its losses as unduly stable memory-objects, and resisting the urge to approach photography as a form of “capturing” meaning. Instead, looking into the aftermath of genocide means, in effect, the opposite: creating images of release, images that explore a fuller and more pressing incompleteness in understanding. It means directing photography’s special capacity to render presence-mixed-with-absence toward historical experience that is, in and of itself, fugitive and unsettled. And it means a willingness to approach traumatic history beyond the framework of storytelling, which is not to diminish the need to render experience in the form of stories, but an acknowledgment of the limits of that approach.