'Help yourself.'
I watched her then as she began to scan my pictures. She stopped before a print.
'This one isn't yours.'
'No, it's by a friend. He shot it in New Mexico.'
'Nice,' she said.
'And this?'
'That's by Edward Weston,' I said.
' 'Pepper No. 30,' isn't it? The print by Cole.' I nodded. She knew her stuff.
'You must like it. Tell me why?'
'It reminds me of something,' I said.
'What?'
'That it took Weston thirty tries before he was satisfied he'd seen a pepper right.'
She smiled.
'Good reason.' She pointed at my Piet@. 'And this-?'
'That one's mine,' I said,
She turned toward me.
'You're kidding!' I shook my head. She looked confused.
'You shot this! You have no idea! As a little girl… God! I was haunted by this.' I stood silent. People had said things like that to me before, and I'd never figured out how to respond. The Vietnamese mother, face in torment, staring at my lens while embracing the bloodied naked body of her son-it touched some chord, spoke of love, despair and the total agony of war. And the men standing around her, the men who'd killed her boy, smiles twisted by shame at what they'd done-they too were victims. That was what the picture said.
'Can't believe I'm standing here with a person who made something that.
.. that changed my life. Course, I was only ten years old.'
'Changed mine too,' I said.
'And I was only twenty-five.'
'Didn't you win a prize or something?'
'That was the good part,' I said.
She studied me, nodded and turned back to my wall.
'What you're doing now-it's completely different. Like you're another person altogether.'
'Well, I hope I am.'
'I definitely think so. You're in a completely different place. But there're still times you'd like to become the person you were back then.
Trouble is, you don't think you can.' She nodded, as if to herself.
'Actually, I think it's possible-if you really wanted to do it, you could. But you don't. Not really. You just tell yourself you do. And less and less as time goes on.
'What are you?' I asked. 'Some kind of witch?' She smiled.
'Do I read you right?'
'A lot better than some therapists I've been to see.'
'Maybe they tried too hard. See, I think the trick is not to try, just to feel and understand.' She gazed again at my Piet.
'You don't like to talk about it, but still I'd like to hear. -.'
We sat down, and she began to talk. She told me about a friend of hers, a girl in her fourth-grade class, whose older brother had been killed in Vietnam. On account of that the girl hated all Vietnamese, and, Kim, being her friend, hated them too. Except one day her homeroom teacher showed the class my picture, and after that Kim changed her mind.
'I realized they were people too, and that it was the war, not the people, that was bad. I lost my friend on account of that. She'd been hurt too badly. She couldn't change. But I could. So I'm grateful to you. to my teacher too, of course. But especially to you, for taking that incredible photograph.'
She asked me about the circumstances that had led up to my taking it. I told her the story, and even as I did I was amazed. I was exposing myself to a girl I didn't even know, some kid who'd wandered in, said a few sensitive things, and was now soliciting my intimate thoughts. it was a fine moment. Ugly. Brutal. In its way even superb. And I was there and lucky enough to have the right tool in my hands. Sol trapped it. Click!'
'Then?'
'A couple of days later it hit. Seen around the world. That's every photojournalist's dream. Made me famous for a while.'
'And now?'
'I don't shoot events. It's light that moves me, Captured in long exposures.'
' 'Chunks of time.'
I nodded.
'Now I'm looking at the silent undercurrents, not the violent waves.'
'How about people?'
'Don't shoot them much.'
'Why not?' I shrugged.
'Too difficult, I guess.'
'Too much trouble-isn't that what you mean?'
I glanced at her.
'Maybe something like that.' I felt uneasy. Our conversation was taking an awkward turn.
'So what do you shoot these days?'
'Streets. Buildings. Walls. Night stuff mostly. Anything that's-'
'Still?' she asked.
'Yeah-still. But that wasn't what I was going to say.' ':What were you going to say?' , Quiet,' I said.
'Anything that's quiet.'
'Right… She nodded, stood up, and began to scan the walls.
'You were very good with people. I can see you were. Know something?
I've seen your stuff before.'
'The PietA.'
'Not just that. Other stuff too.'
'Like what?'
'Portraits. Actors, writers, athletes. In magazines. Maybe three, four years ago, when I first came to New York. I saw them.' She turned and faced me.
'I thought they were pretty great.'
I thought they were pretty great too. Unfortunately I couldn't shoot them anymore.
'Well,' I said, 'like I told you when you called, I no longer do that kind of work.'
'Maybe you should start again.'
'Think so?'
She nodded.
'See, I think maybe if you started shooting people, you wouldn't sound so sour the way you do.'
I stood up. She was right, of course. But still I wanted her to leave.
'Do I really sound sour, Kim? I'm sorry. I wish I didn't.'
'Maybe if you went back to shooting people,' she said, 'you'd give up all this… boring malaise.' She waved her hand at my most recent prints.
I stared at her. She stared straight back. I expected her to apologize, but she stood her ground, and that made me mad.
'Now, that's a clever little speech,' I said.
'And you're a clever little girl. Sashay your way in here, toss a few compliments, fake up a little profound analysis. Then, when you see that's not going to get you what you want, try some rude insults to see if maybe that'll turn me around.'
'What is it you think I want from you anyway?'
