When they came to the Polaroid studio, they did not come seeking celebrity or any kind of special recognition for their actions during the momentous days of the waning weeks of 2001-actions that they uniformly described in the simplest of terms. They came only with the intention of participating in a project, telling their story, and sharing in the telling of others.

They were asked to come because they represent the best of us, the quiet capacity for heroism that resides within the hu-man spirit. Asking someone to take time to be photographed on something other than a wedding day can be perceived as time-consuming and unnecessary or, worse, frivolous. Certainly in the days after the attacks, with the nation grieving and in shock, it might have seemed obscenely so. But that is what I do. I'm a photographer, not a firefighter or a cop or an ironworker. This, I felt, is all that I can offer.

I knew about this camera and its ability to render a subject with astonishing clarity, power and detail. Originally conceived in the 1970s by Polaroid's Dr. Edwin H. Land as a copy camera, and used through the years primarily in a museum context, it had come to reside in the Bowery district of Manhattan, not far from Ground Zero. Its lens is from a U-2 spy plane, and the exposure it makes is on an eight-foot-tall piece of film; the huge picture is not, then, a blowup, and the lack of grain in the image lends immediacy and intimacy. Because of the complexity of the operation, a subject coming before this camera is, typically, given only one chance to tell his story-and this also creates a heightened intensity because it is not a typical "shoot," where the best of 50 or a hundred images will be selected.

The way to understand this camera is to think of it as a room-size instrument. The room goes completely dark, and the flash fills the whole room at the critical moment. As might be imagined, the camera is not transportable: The subject must come to the camera. This, too, made approaching these people, who were intimately involved with the horrific events of 9/11, more difficult. But as I continued to read accounts of these people's actions-what they had done on the infamous date and in the days thereafter-my thoughts kept returning to this camera. In the crucible, these ordinary people had risen up and become giants. They had reached out, risked their lives, helped total strangers and become a source of light within an immensely dark cloud. Several of them rescued people who would otherwise have been lost that day, and in the process, they rescued an entire city's sense of self.

This unusual camera, which took larger-than-life pictures, might, I felt, be a suitable, even worthy medium for telling these people's stories. So I made the phone calls. I'm still unsure what the people heard in my voice, or what interested them about being a part of this project. But they started to arrive at the studio on East 2nd Street-slowly at first, then in a torrent. They came in fire trucks, police cars, rescue vehicles, ambulances, taxis and on the subway. They came on foot, walking over from their firehouse or from their apartment. They came alone in their own vehicles, or as a group in a ladder truck, or in a Suburban with a security detail, as the mayor did.

The studio was awash in emotion: sadness, loss, recovery, relief. It was also filled with questions: Why did this happen? Why did I survive when so many others did not? There were, of course, no answers.

Speaking for myself, it was a privilege and a blessing to meet the people who bore these questions and emotions. Jason Cascone, the young firefighter who received absolution from a priest on the way to his first day of work. Jan Demczur, a window washer who, armed only with his squeegee, fought his way out of the trap of an elevator and rescued five others in the process. Barry Crumbley of the Red Cross, who volunteered all day long on 9/11, helping people, not knowing until six p.m. that his wife had made it safely out of the towers. Louie Cacchioli, a firefighter who easily could have perished but kept moving and never gave up, saving many lives.

As I met and worked with these people, listening to quiet descriptions of what had happened to them on 9/11 and in the aftermath, it became clear to me that, no matter how big a camera might have existed on the planet-no matter how huge a camera I might have dreamed up-they would have filled the lens. In the tragedy, they gave an enormous gift to all Americans, as their grace and courage reminded us about the best in mankind, even as we stared at the worst. In coming to the studio and standing in front of this singular camera, they have given us all another gift: their images and their stories of that day.

The subjects demanded the use of this heroic photographic instrument, for they truly were-and are-larger than life.