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Show 157 "No I meant for the ghost." "Me too!" "Leah, please. Seriously. For the painter that I'm supposed to be. Suskind wants a name. Make one up." "Edgar Allen Poe." "Oh, Christ." "That's a better one!" "Someday," Hunt said, moving to the doorway. "Someday - you're going to take me seriously. "I certainly hope so." Leah went to him, put her arms around him, kissed his neck. The glossy photographs, backed and fronted by cardboard, arrived Special Delivery the following day. Hunt took them into his studio and tacked them all to a panel of corkboard. Suskind had included a note: "Suggestion for elevator series: Use same basic elevator image. Rotate in different faces. Contract follows." Hunt studied the pics - all black and white. They unsettled him in a way that uncolored photographic images often did - seeming shadowy, bloodless, unreal. They gave him shapes, shapes and compositions - Hunt was grateful to Suskind for that - but the element of Time seeemed gone from them all. When had they been taken? Last week? Years ago? Centuries? Only the fresh gloss of their condition argued any immediacy, any present life. |