![]() ![]() ![]() His family posed on the museum steps or beneath the brilliant marquee with the poster screaming over their left shoulders, always the same composition. The camera was so backward that every lurching specimen his father enlisted from the passersby was able to operate it sans hassle, no matter the depth of cow-eyed vacancy in their tourist faces or local wretchedness inverting their spines. There was no prospect of video, high-def or otherwise. It did not allow them to book airfare to beach resorts with close access to rain forests via courtesy shuttle. The family camera did not transmit their coordinates to an orbiting satellite. His parents were holdouts in an age of digital multiplicity, raking the soil in lonesome areas of resistance: a coffee machine that didn’t tell time, dictionaries made out of paper, a camera that only took pictures. These afternoons were preserved in a series of photographs taken by strangers. When his mother and father dragged him to the city for that season’s agreed-upon exhibit or good-for-you Broadway smash, they usually dropped in on Uncle Lloyd for a quick hello. His Uncle Lloyd lived downtown on Lafayette, and in the long stretches between visits he daydreamed about living in his apartment. ![]() “The gray layer of dust covering things has become their best part.” ![]()
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