work in the French countryside. “There’s an innocence to these early pictures,” Mattie said, the disquieting thought suddenly occurring to her that Roy Crawford might be flirting with her, “that’s missing from most of his later photographs. While his sympathy with the working class remains a hallmark of his work, there’s more tension in the pictures Ronis took after World War II. Like this one,” she said, directing Roy Crawford to a later photo entitled
Christmas
, wherein a man, a haunted expression on his solemn face, stood alone amid a crowd of people outside a Paris department store. “There isn’t the same connection between people,” Mattie explained, “and that distance often becomes the subject of the photograph. Did that make any sense?”
“There’s a distance between people,” Roy reiterated. “Makes sense to me.”
Mattie nodded. Me too, she thought, as they studied these later photographs for several minutes in silence. She felt Roy’s arm brush against the side of her own, waited for it to withdraw, was strangely pleased when it didn’t. Maybe not so much distance after all, she thought.
“I prefer these.”
Mattie felt Roy Crawford pulling away from her side, like a Band-Aid being slowly ripped from a still-fresh wound. He returned to the earlier nudes, gazing intently at the body of a young woman slouched provocatively on a chair, her head and neck just outside the camera’s range, one breast exposed, her pronounced triangle of pubic hair the focal point of the picture, her long bare legs stretching toward the camera. A man’s clothed leg appeared slyly in the left corner of the frame.
“The composition of this photograph is especially interesting,” Mattie began. “And, of course, the juxtaposition of the different textures—the wood, the stone—”
“The bare flesh.”
“The bare flesh,” Mattie repeated.
Was
he flirting with her?
“The simple things in life,” Roy Crawford said.
Things are rarely as simple as they sound
, Mattie heard her husband say.
And we all know that
.
“Let’s have a look in here.” Mattie led Roy Crawford into a second set of rooms.
“What do we have here?”
“Danny Lyon,” Mattie told him, resuming her most professional voice. “Probably one of the most influential photographers in America today. As you can see, he’s a very different kind of photographer from Willy Ronis, although he does share Ronis’s interest in everyday people and current events. These are photographs he took of the burgeoning civil rights movement between 1962 and 1964, after he left our very own University of Chicago to hitchhike south and become the first staff photographer for SNCC, which you may remember stands for—”
“Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Yes, I remember it well. I was fourteen years old at the time. And you weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye.”
A twinkle he extinguished when he left, Mattie thought. “Actually, I was born in 1962,” she said. He had to be flirting with her.
“Which makes you—”
“About twice as old as your current girlfriend.” Mattie quickly motioned toward the first grouping of photographs, Roy Crawford’s easy laughter trailing after her. “So, what do you think? Anything catch your eye?”
“Many things,” Roy Crawford said, ignoring the photographs, looking directly at Mattie.
“Are you flirting with me?” Mattie asked with a directness that surprised both of them.
“I believe I am.” Roy Crawford smiled that big loopy grin.
“I’m a married woman.” Mattie tapped at the thin gold band on the appropriate finger of her left hand.
“Your point being?”
Mattie smiled, realized she was enjoying herself rather more than she should. “Roy,” she began, a pesky smile threatening to destroy the intended seriousness of her tone, “you’ve been my client now for how many years—five, six?”
“Longer than my last two marriages combined,” he agreed.
“And
Christmas
, wherein a man, a haunted expression on his solemn face, stood alone amid a crowd of people outside a Paris department store. “There isn’t the same connection between people,” Mattie explained, “and that distance often becomes the subject of the photograph. Did that make any sense?”
“There’s a distance between people,” Roy reiterated. “Makes sense to me.”
Mattie nodded. Me too, she thought, as they studied these later photographs for several minutes in silence. She felt Roy’s arm brush against the side of her own, waited for it to withdraw, was strangely pleased when it didn’t. Maybe not so much distance after all, she thought.
“I prefer these.”
Mattie felt Roy Crawford pulling away from her side, like a Band-Aid being slowly ripped from a still-fresh wound. He returned to the earlier nudes, gazing intently at the body of a young woman slouched provocatively on a chair, her head and neck just outside the camera’s range, one breast exposed, her pronounced triangle of pubic hair the focal point of the picture, her long bare legs stretching toward the camera. A man’s clothed leg appeared slyly in the left corner of the frame.
“The composition of this photograph is especially interesting,” Mattie began. “And, of course, the juxtaposition of the different textures—the wood, the stone—”
“The bare flesh.”
“The bare flesh,” Mattie repeated.
Was
he flirting with her?
“The simple things in life,” Roy Crawford said.
Things are rarely as simple as they sound
, Mattie heard her husband say.
And we all know that
.
“Let’s have a look in here.” Mattie led Roy Crawford into a second set of rooms.
“What do we have here?”
“Danny Lyon,” Mattie told him, resuming her most professional voice. “Probably one of the most influential photographers in America today. As you can see, he’s a very different kind of photographer from Willy Ronis, although he does share Ronis’s interest in everyday people and current events. These are photographs he took of the burgeoning civil rights movement between 1962 and 1964, after he left our very own University of Chicago to hitchhike south and become the first staff photographer for SNCC, which you may remember stands for—”
“Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Yes, I remember it well. I was fourteen years old at the time. And you weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye.”
A twinkle he extinguished when he left, Mattie thought. “Actually, I was born in 1962,” she said. He had to be flirting with her.
“Which makes you—”
“About twice as old as your current girlfriend.” Mattie quickly motioned toward the first grouping of photographs, Roy Crawford’s easy laughter trailing after her. “So, what do you think? Anything catch your eye?”
“Many things,” Roy Crawford said, ignoring the photographs, looking directly at Mattie.
“Are you flirting with me?” Mattie asked with a directness that surprised both of them.
“I believe I am.” Roy Crawford smiled that big loopy grin.
“I’m a married woman.” Mattie tapped at the thin gold band on the appropriate finger of her left hand.
“Your point being?”
Mattie smiled, realized she was enjoying herself rather more than she should. “Roy,” she began, a pesky smile threatening to destroy the intended seriousness of her tone, “you’ve been my client now for how many years—five, six?”
“Longer than my last two marriages combined,” he agreed.
“And
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