«I bought a used Canon and set off around the West Village, peering through the viewfinder. Finally, I framed up a peach brick wall stencilled with a feedlot ad: the nineteenth-century city, persisting still. As I clicked the shutter, someone tapped my shoulder. A very old woman swathed in black peered up at me. I was a friend of Walker Evans's she said. You know Walker Evans, the photographer? Of course, I said, preparing to be delighted. She was about to share an Evans tip or compliment my eye. Or both! He would never have taken that photogaph.
monde ingrat!
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