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Henry, I love photographs that are about nothing at all. That celebrate neither the photographer nor the subject, and yet perversely find a way to wriggle into one's consciousness like some malevolent virus that lies dormant and then flares up and leaves a nasty cold sore on the surface of the brain. If you scratch it, it only gets worse. And yet you can't not scratch it; the itch is irresistible, and the sense of relief and deliverance when you do is wonderful. This is one of those. Thank you. |