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Those static images have the uncanny ability to jar the memory and bring places and people back to life. They bridge the present with the past and validate as real what the passage of time has turned into hazy recollections. Were it not for them, my experiences would have remained as just imperfect memories of perfect moments. ↗
I looked at the images hanging on the walls, wanting to find those things in her pictures. My favorite was directly across from me: a photo of a beaten, weathered hull of a rowboat. I knew about as much about boats as I did photography, which was next to nothing, but that boat wasn’t going anywhere near the water anytime soon unless the owner decided it would make a mediocre shipwreck to explore while scuba diving. Nevertheless, it faced the out-of-focus lake in the background, almost hopefully, as if it hadn’t yet decided its best days were gone, as if it still dreamed of bobbing peacefully on the waves. “Does that one have a name?” I asked. She smiled. “Seaworthy. ↗
It was her. No one had eyes like that. Eyes as pure as the sky on a fresh, wintery morning. Ones that sucked him in and refused to let go. No one had her touch. Feather light and warm. A touch that sizzled his insides and brought him to his knees. And no one had that pure, simple, cherry-vanilla scent. The sweetness that was only her, like she was a dessert made just for him. To lick, nibble, and enjoy. ↗
REST IN PEACE, MR. PARKER. 'You want us to be surreptitious?' Hawk said. 'Surreptitious?' Sapp said. 'I educated in Head Start,' Hawk said. 'Really worked,' Sapp said. 'No reason to be covert,' I said. 'You too?' Sapp said. 'Nope,' I said. 'I'm a straight Anglo white guy of European ancestry. We're naturally smart.' 'You missed Bernard,' Sapp said. 'Tall straight Anglo white guy,' I said. 'Hey,' Bernard said. ↗
Had they both become unwilling participants in some sort of mad scientist’s chemistry experiment to combine Man A with Woman B to see how quickly they’d combust? ↗
Photographs don’t discriminate between the living and the dead. In the fragments of time and shards of light that compose them, everyone is equal. Now you see us; now you don’t. It doesn’t matter whether you look through a camera lens and press the shutter. It doesn’t even matter whether you open your eyes or close them. The pictures are always there. And so are the people in them. ↗
He growled, equally exhilarated and annoyed by the way she insisted on pushing him back. “I’m going to put you on your knees, Ruby. You’re going to hate how much you love it. ↗
Needing to have reality confirmed and experience enhanced by photographs is an aesthetic consumerism to which everyone is now addicted. Industrial societies turn their citizens into image-junkies; it is the most irresistible form of mental pollution. ↗
