You know: in a foolish, undiscriminating way, I've been happy these last few months. I don't know why. I just am. I love my friends; I love my pupils; I love what I read; I -- dammit -- love my thoughts. I love the taste of oranges.
Thornton Wilder in a letter to Gertrude Stein, Aug 14, 1936

Friday, June 25, 2010


The scene is the men's room of a large, Houston, Texas, hotel during a week-long gathering of international photographers, dealers, publishers, and critics.

I enter the men's room and see Jack, an employee of the sponsoring organization, a man a decade older than myself, standing at one of the urinals. We nod and I take my position a polite two urinals down the line.


Enter a thirty-year-old Israeli photojournalist. We all three nod. He takes the middle urinal, pees, and exits.


My pitiful victory: I still leave before Jack.

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