(From the intro to the book)
Without saying a word she takes a sip of her Chianti and holds up a photo for me to look at. There is something about the mood of the photo, or the light, maybe a gesture, a shape, a colour, an idea, or simply the subject matter, which reminds me of one of my own. I respond by rifling through the pile in my hands and hold up a photo for her. Then it's her turn. And so on. Every so often there are sounds—sighs of appreciation, the occasional laugh or maybe a groan of frustration—but no words. At one point she holds up one, two, three prints in a row. She is having a rant, I think. Sometimes even visual conversations become arguments. Maybe I don't like where this conversation is going so I throw in a non-sequitur to shift the direction, or display a monologue of my own. Then I notice the bottle of wine is empty. "Damn," I think.
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