My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Last night I watched a documentary of Henri Cartier-Bresson. An old man in front of piles of photos. Occasionally he would hold one in front of his face and talk about it. All you would see is the top of his head. He has photographed Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe and Samuel Beckett and a very young and beautiful Truman Capote. Over and over, he caught people kissing and lying about, in cemeteries, on bridges, in alleys. He talked about the mystery, the mysteries of light and shadow and the rhythm of repeating designs-nuns, fences, bridge struts, stairways. He wasn't taking photographs anymore. He was drawing, nudes and landscapes. He had a slight smile on his face while he talked and paged through a book of his photos, cover by Matisse. His archives are enormous, a huge room of sliding files.

I went back and looked at my daughter's work. A brilliant photo necessitates timing and alert attention, to the moment when everything falls into place; the light, the dark and the borders in between.

Henri said, "Oh, I love this one. I love the people."

Tonight Susan Sontag, still having terrible trouble with debt. At risk of losing her rights to her work. Egad.