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Show 13 "Not to worry," says Ahmed, examining no less than twenty photographs of the Wood County Courthouse, a huge orange building of gables and spires. "It is what I have saved out of my grant this year; before I was foolishly frugal." "What about the time? I thought you had a lot of work at your lab." "It is not so important as I thought. Did you know," he says, "that on the third floor of this courthouse there is a little museum, and in it there is a human thumb in a bottle?" He reaches for another stack of photos, all of the museum, and shows Garrett the picture of the bottle and the thumb. "I don't know whose it is," He says. His photographs are, at least, getting better. The lighting is right, often interesting, the subject matter is more carefully considered, more artfully framed. From each pile of prints, Ahmed selects only a few to go in the albums. "Tomorrow," he says, "I am taking the day off to do nothing but shoot the farm. Will you be here?" The next day is Saturday. Garrett is there, shows Ahmed some of the less obvious corners of the buildings and property, watches as he shoots half a roll of film on the horses, walks with him up and down the creek. On Sunday Ahmed goes alone to Toledo, to photograph the airport he says, the first place he walked on American soil. On Monday Garrett helps set femurs and thigh bones, fractured fingers and broken backs, hips and ankles and arms, ribs and wrists and knees. It is a never-ending procession of broken bodies, |
