Hands are complicated thoughts

from “The Comb”

After the extreme close-up on the face, one of the most com­mon shots in the Broth­ers Quay filmic gram­mar is the close-up on the hands. As these shots remind us, hands can be as expres­sive as faces, per­haps even more so, when it comes to con­vey­ing emo­tional states or reveal­ing some­thing about the per­son (or pup­pet) to whom they belong. Hands are also fre­quently agents of action in and of them­selves and thus func­tion as char­ac­ters in some of the Quay’s films (cf the writ­ing hands fea­tured in an ear­lier post and gallery). As if to draw a par­al­lel between the hands of pup­pets and their makers/masters, in at least one film – Rehearsals for Extinct Anatomies – we actu­ally see one of the film­mak­ers’ hands as it reaches into the frame and sets a ball in motion, momen­tar­ily blur­ring the dis­tinc­tion between the nar­ra­tive and meta lev­els of the film.

As if to empha­size their inde­pen­dent sta­tus, hands are fre­quently rep­re­sented as autonomous enti­ties in the Quays’ movies, mov­ing about and act­ing on their own. In Stille Nacht III (1993), for exam­ple, the lead­ing (actu­ally, the only) roles are played by two dis­em­bod­ied hands. One guides us into and through the action of the film, float­ing down a dim hall­way, point­ing to the plaque indi­cat­ing the locale (the appar­ently fic­ti­tious « Archiv Got­tinga »), and then lead­ing us to the place where the action will occur: a room hous­ing an anamor­phic deer table one of whose tes­ti­cles will be grazed by a bul­let fired by the other dis­em­bod­ied hand, the film being an illus­tra­tion of the phe­nom­e­non by which the wounded or removed tes­ti­cle of a deer results in the asym­met­ric growth of its antlers.

The use of the hand is more com­plex in The Comb (1990), where it per­forms sev­eral func­tions. Most notice­ably per­haps, it serves as a leit­mo­tif link­ing the film’s frame and embed­ded sto­ries: the twitchy fin­ger of the sleep­ing woman’s hand in the open­ing sequence fore­shad­ows the wag­ging fin­ger of the mys­te­ri­ous pup­pet that seems to reign over the pup­pet world. Each time the action moves from the frame story to the embed­ded story, the hand and twitch­ing fin­ger serve as the tran­si­tion image. Also, within the pup­pet world, there is a child-like pup­pet car­ry­ing a lad­der on “the edge of the for­est,” as an inter­ti­tle tells us. At cer­tain points, the pup­pet falls asleep on its feet and when it does so its hands become detached from its body and con­tinue to carry the lad­der on their own. Even­tu­ally, they bring the lad­der into an ornate, wood-paneled, vault-like struc­ture whose walls, dec­o­rated with cal­ligraphed let­ters, are pierced by geo­met­ric open­ings that allow pas­sage from one cham­ber into another. In one such cham­ber a woman pup­pet is sleep­ing, recall­ing the sleep­ing actress in the open­ing sequence of the film. Her pres­ence sug­gests that the real and pup­pet worlds, and thus the frame and embed­ded nar­ra­tives, are mir­rors of one another, and that per­haps the sleep­ing woman in the frame story is dream­ing of her­self, asleep and dream­ing in the embed­ded story.

And here things get com­pli­cated, since at one point the dis­em­bod­ied hands car­ry­ing the lad­der through the vaulted space in which the woman pup­pet is sleep­ing push the lad­der up and through her body from the inside, as if the space they were trav­el­ing through and which she her­self inhab­its is located within her, or that there is another such space inside her and within which another pair of dis­em­bod­ied hands car­ries a lad­der, and another woman pup­pet sleeps, and so on, ad infini­tum. Once free of her body the hands, still grip­ping the lad­der, fly off and, as if on a magic car­pet, sail through the vaulted space whose walls have since sprouted myr­iad lad­ders, some straight, some curved, which dan­gle down­ward like tree roots. Those hands even­tu­ally return to their place at the ends of the arms of the child pup­pet who awak­ens and con­tin­ues on his way, and we even­tu­ally leave the pup­pet world for the “real” world via the tran­si­tional image of the hand with the wag­ging finger/the twitchy fin­ger on the hand of the sleep­ing woman who finally awak­ens. She rises from her bed and begins her toi­let as the film con­cludes, run­ning her fin­gers through her hair, pick­ing up a comb, comb­ing her hair, then stop­ping to scrape her thumb­nail across its teeth.

That comb had been pre­sented in close-up at the begin­ning of the film, when it seemed to fore­shadow the lad­ders that fea­tured so promi­nently in the pup­pet world of the embed­ded story, its teeth sug­gest­ing their rungs. Appear­ing in close-up again at the end, it not only gives The Comb a strong sense of clo­sure, it also empha­sizes a motivic coher­ence in its sug­ges­tion of the ladders.

You can see a selec­tion of the stills in the Broth­ers Quay gallery of hands.

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Published:
06.22.2010 – 12:07 am
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Brothers Quay gallery – hands

from “The Comb”
from “Stille Nacht III” (Tales from Vienna Woods)
from “The Comb”
from “Rehearsals for Extinct Anatomies”
from “The Comb”
from “Rehearsals for Extinct Anatomies”
from “The Comb”
from “Stille Nacht III” (Tales from Vienna Woods)
from “The Comb”

This gallery con­tains stills from select films by the Broth­ers Quay. Click on a thumb­nail to enlarge it.

Return to “Hands are com­pli­cated thoughts”

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06.22.2010 – 12:05 am
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From my sktchbook, 2

sktch.029

sktch­book is an on-going project of images cre­ated on the iPhone using a vari­ety of image-making and manip­u­lat­ing appli­ca­tions, pri­mar­ily sktch, a gen­er­a­tive draw­ing app by CreativeApplications.Net, from which the project takes its name.

You can view all of the sktches that have been fea­tured on In an inde­ter­mi­nate place here, or the com­plete col­lec­tion on Flickr.

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06.15.2010 – 12:05 am
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Notes on the loop

ProLoop User Interface

Pro­Loop User Interface

(Let­ting the mind wan­der, sweep wide, loop back…)

The loop fas­ci­nates, whether as idea, object, or aes­thetic device. It spurs the mind on, sends it spin­ning, causes it to won­der: will this ever end?

Tech­ni­cally, it shouldn’t, because the loop = infin­ity (whose sym­bol – ∞ – is itself a loop). Among the things that can stop it: the pause but­ton, the fade out, a power fail­ure, exhaus­tion, bore­dom, ellipses.…

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In music, the loop is an early motor of com­po­si­tional dynamism. The round and canon, their tech­no­log­i­cal grand­child the tape loop, and the latter’s rela­tions: the proto- and pseudo-loops (the for­mer orches­tral and play­erly, like Satie’s Fur­ni­ture Music, Reich’s many phase pieces, Adams’ Shaker Loops, et al; the lat­ter elec­tronic and vir­tual, such as old-school “dig­i­tal delay” effects, the loop­ing fea­ture of pro­grams like Pro Tools and Garage Band, and stand-alone loop play­ers like Pro­Loop), are all vari­a­tions on a theme: the per­pet­ual move­ment machine.

In fact, devices like Pro­Loop rep­re­sent an apoth­e­o­sis of the loop: whereas in most cases the loop is a means to an end, in that of loop play­ers such as this, it is itself the end, the goal being more to work with loops for what they are than to use them for what they add. They go from orna­ment, as in the The Bea­t­les’ 1966 “Tomor­row Never Knows,” for exam­ple, to main event, as in Brian Eno’s “1/2” from his 1978 Ambi­ent 1: Music for Air­ports, recently reprised in Peter Chil­vers and San­dra O’Neill’s iPhone app Air.

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In nar­ra­tive the loop implies cir­cu­lar­ity, fatal­ity, self-reflexivity. That Ionesco’s Bald Soprano (and its prog­eny, Pedro Pietri’s The Masses are Asses) ends as it began sug­gests that things never change, that every­one is the same or at least inter­change­able, that life is a trap. That the end of Robbe-Grillet and Resnais’ Last Year at Marien­bad fea­tures the begin­ning of the play whose end­ing we saw in the open­ing scenes implies that the out­come was decided from the begin­ning, that it was inescapable, that it may be begin­ning again. The same is true of the Quay Broth­ers’ Stille Nacht III (Tales from Vienna Woods), whose end­ing is a replay of the cen­tral event of the film – a bul­let graz­ing the tes­ti­cle of a deer effigy – and thus rep­re­sents the eter­nal­iz­ing of that action. Not unlike night 602 of the 1,001 Nights as fic­tion­al­ized by Borges in “The Gar­den of Fork­ing Paths” and else­where (but ref­er­enced as fact by Fou­cault in his essay “Lan­guage to Infin­ity”), in which, due to a copyist’s error, Scheherazade begins telling the sto­ries of the 1,001 nights all over again (and will do so of course each time she hits that 602nd night).

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The loop is present in nature in ocean cur­rents, the aster­oid and Kuiper belts, as well as in the orbits of plan­ets, comets, and other heav­enly bod­ies, as Luke Twyman’s Solar­Beat beau­ti­fully (and musi­cally) illus­trates. The cycli­cal nature of time with its repeat­ing units (days, sea­sons, years), all prod­ucts of the Earth’s rev­o­lu­tion and orbit, can also be seen as a loop, its most emblem­atic rep­re­sen­ta­tion being the cir­cu­lar clock face (but also: the func­tion­ing of clock­works, the move­ment of the hands).

The loop is a fun­da­men­tal trope of rep­e­ti­tion, giv­ing oth­er­wise abstract cycli­cal occur­rences a sim­ple shape by which to visu­al­ize, under­stand, and remem­ber them.

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Published:
06.08.2010 – 12:05 am
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Radio Music

Here is John Cage’s Radio Music, per­formed by Gianni-Emilio Simon­etti, Juan Hidalgo, and Wal­ter Marchetti:

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (ver­sion 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Down­load the lat­est ver­sion here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Com­posed in 1956, Radio Music is Cage’s sec­ond work for radio, the first being Imag­i­nary Land­scape No. 4 from 1951, which I spoke of in an ear­lier post. Like the lat­ter piece, Radio Music was com­posed using chance oper­a­tions and is inher­ently inde­ter­mi­nate, given the nature of the radio (the piece is scored for a vari­able ensem­ble of from one to eight radios). Unlike Imag­i­nary Land­scape No. 4, how­ever, Radio Music was not tran­scribed using con­ven­tional musi­cal nota­tion and thus doesn’t require music read­ing skills to per­form. Rather, the score con­tains columns of num­bers indi­cat­ing radio fre­quen­cies occa­sion­ally sep­a­rated by hor­i­zon­tal rules, which indi­cate silences. The piece is divided into four parts, which can also be sep­a­rated by silences if the per­form­ers so choose. The dura­tion of the fre­quen­cies like that of the silences is left to their dis­cre­tion, but a intro­duc­tory note stip­u­lates that a per­for­mance should not exceed 6 minutes.

Guy de Bièvre has made some inter­est­ing com­ments about con­tem­po­rary per­for­mances of Radio Music, which are prob­lema­tized by the changes, tech­no­log­i­cal and oth­er­wise, that the medium has under­gone since the time the piece was cre­ated. “Look­ing at the score now, 50 years later,” he says, “raises a num­ber of ques­tions. The radio land­scape has changed enor­mously since 1956. The radios them­selves have changed, they sound dif­fer­ent.” (JCAR) He elaborates:

The sounds were very dif­fer­ent con­tent and qual­ity wise. Espe­cially today with dig­i­tal radio and ana­log radio pre­sets on the one hand and inter­net radio on the other. Some peo­ple will never hear sta­tic or a sta­tion fad­ing again.

Hence the chal­lenge to tran­scribe Radio Music for inter­net broad­casts. This raises some imme­di­ate questions:

– how do we inter­pret the orig­i­nal wave­lengths?
– what about the absence of sta­tic, or the impos­si­bil­ity to tune in between 2 sta­tions?
– what about the latency due to switch­ing between radio sta­tions? (RM)

Such ques­tions in no way take away from the con­cep­tual and philo­soph­i­cal issues raised by this and Cage’s other works for the radio, rather, they have to do with the mechan­ics of per­for­mance and of course how the piece will sound. Given the nature of these changes, Bièvre claims that it is not pos­si­ble to give a his­tor­i­cally accu­rate per­for­mance of the work, in other words to make Radio Music sound as it did at the time it was composed.

That’s true of course, but it also serves to con­vey one of the cen­tral lessons that Cage sought to teach through his work, one that he him­self learned in the late ’40s when he heard another pianist per­form The Per­ilous Night, one of his com­po­si­tions for the pre­pared piano. “His prepa­ra­tion of the piano was so poor,” Cage later wrote, “that I wished at the time that I had never writ­ten the music.” A later, more suc­cess­ful per­for­mance of the same piece by a dif­fer­ent pianist brought Cage to the real­iza­tion that, though he may try, he could not con­trol how his music would sound when per­formed by oth­ers. This lead to the under­stand­ing that he did not “own” it, that once pub­lished and out in the world his music would have a life – and sound – of its own, and that, should he con­tinue to com­pose, he would have to accept and live with that. As Cage him­self explained:

When I first placed objects between piano strings, it was with the desire to pos­sess sounds (to be able to repeat them). But, as the music left my home and went from piano to piano and from pianist to pianist, it became clear that not only two pianists essen­tially dif­fer­ent from one another, but two pianos are not the same either. Instead of the pos­si­bil­ity of rep­e­ti­tion, we are faced in life with the unique qual­i­ties and char­ac­ter­is­tics of each occasion.

The pre­pared piano, impres­sions I had from the work of artist friends, study of Zen Bud­dhism, ram­blings in fields and forests look­ing for mush­rooms, all led me to the enjoy­ment of things as they come, as they hap­pen, rather than as they are pos­sessed or kept or forced to be.

And so my work since the early ’fifties has been increas­ingly inde­ter­mi­nate. (HTPCBP)

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Works Cited
JCAR: Guy de Bièvre, “John Cage and radio”
RM: ———. “Radio Music / notes on Cage and after”
HTPCBP: John Cage, “How the Piano Came to be Pre­pared” in Empty Words (Hanover, NH: Wes­leyan Uni­ver­sity Press, 1981), 7–9.

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06.01.2010 – 12:05 am
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Reading “A Humument” – framing devices

“A Humu­ment,” p. 5

A Humu­ment fea­tures a num­ber of fram­ing devices that, in addi­tion to what­ever nar­ra­tive role they may play, fur­ther empha­size the self-reflexive char­ac­ter of the book. Unsur­pris­ingly per­haps given the nature of this work, among the most com­mon are the (book) page, the paint­ing, and the win­dow. These items are rep­re­sented both ver­bally and visu­ally, and have both lit­eral and metaphor­i­cal functions.

On the most basic level, these fram­ing devices are merely inci­den­tal to the scenes in which they appear, such as the win­dows in the many inte­ri­ors where the pro­tag­o­nist Toge (more on him later) sits writ­ing or think­ing, pages (AE) 142, 150, and 155, for exam­ple. In such cases they are essen­tially orna­men­tal objects; they have no par­tic­u­lar nar­ra­tive func­tion (other than per­haps con­tribut­ing to a Barthe­sian “effet de réel,” if such an effect can be said to exist in this book), and thus gen­er­ally go unmen­tioned. In other cases they serve as socio-cultural mark­ers, as do the many paint­ings hang­ing on the walls of what appear to be salons or gal­leries, the “bour­geois pic­tures” on pages (AE) 70 and 71 being two such exam­ples. They con­tex­tu­al­ize the milieu in which the nar­ra­tive, such as it is, evolves, while under­scor­ing sev­eral of the meta-level themes of the work, namely art, its cre­ation, and con­tem­pla­tion. Inter­est­ingly, it is rare that the con­tent of the fram­ing device, i.e. what­ever the page, pic­ture, or win­dow actu­ally frames or reveals, be of any con­se­quence. Often it is not even iden­ti­fi­able, which is also telling – it is the device itself that counts.

This leads us to the case of those fram­ing devices that have no other pur­pose than to be a focal point in and of them­selves. To empha­size this fact they are often the only thing appear­ing on the page in ques­tion. This essen­tially intran­si­tive usage is highly unusual since the whole point of a frame is to set off some thing, what­ever it might be, in order to draw our atten­tion to it and encour­age us to con­sider its pos­si­ble sig­nif­i­cance to the work in which it appears. Here, the thing being set off is the fram­ing device itself, which often func­tions as a mise en abyme, i.e. a detail reflect­ing the work as a whole. Such is the case of the shat­tered page on (AE) 5, which I referred to in an ear­lier post. The image is emblem­atic of A Humu­ment. It high­lights the speci­ficity of Phillips’ work by graph­i­cally depict­ing its rela­tion­ship to its source text, Mallock’s A Human Doc­u­ment, show­ing that A Humu­ment came into being by break­ing apart the lat­ter book and frag­ment­ing its oth­er­wise con­tin­u­ous fab­ric. (One is reminded another line from Barthes, namely that “The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author.”) The text on the page rein­forces this inter­pre­ta­tion, begin­ning with the lines: “attempt to / crip­ple sen­tences, // real­ity, / bro­ken by / quiv­er­ing / pecu­liar­i­ties / … / arti­fi­cial / fic­tion // bro­ken in / the imag­i­nary / jour­nal,” and end­ing on: “frag­ments / fragments.”

Finally, it is inter­est­ing to note that all of these objects – pages, paint­ings, and win­dows – are things which give to see, whether lit­er­ally in the case of the lat­ter two, or via the imag­i­na­tion in the case of the for­mer, and are entirely fit­ting for such a (apolo­gies in advance for the weak pun) vision­ary work. And what the fram­ing devices in A Humu­ment give to see is not so much that which is framed, but rather the fact of a con­tain­ing frame itself, which is also a reflec­tion of the work’s nature, A Humu­ment being both con­tained within and con­tain­ing A Human Doc­u­ment.

You can view a selec­tion of pages from A Humu­ment in the Fram­ing Devices gallery.

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Note

As A Humu­ment varies from edi­tion to edi­tion, it is nec­es­sary to indi­cate the edi­tion to which I’m refer­ring at any given point. To do so I have adopted the fol­low­ing key:

TPE = Tetrad Press Edi­tion
TE = Trade Edi­tion
FRE = First Revised Edi­tion
SRE/TE = Sec­ond Revised Edi­tion / Third Edi­tion
FE = Fourth Edi­tion
AE = All editions

As I hope these pages will demon­strate, A Humu­ment could and should be read both syn­chron­i­cally and diachronically.

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05.19.2010 – 11:51 am
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Framing Devices gallery

“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 53
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 299
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 310
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 9
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 71
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 218
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 5
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 73
“A Humument” (Tetrad Edition), p. 80

This gallery con­tains con­tains selected pages from A Humu­ment by Tom Phillips. Click on a thumb­nail to enlarge it.

Return to “Read­ing “A Humu­ment” – fram­ing devices”

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05.19.2010 – 11:50 am
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From my sktchbook, 1

sktch.016

sktch­book is an on-going project of images cre­ated on the iPhone using a vari­ety of image-making and manip­u­lat­ing appli­ca­tions, pri­mar­ily sktch, a gen­er­a­tive draw­ing app by CreativeApplications.Net, from which the project takes its name.

You can view all of the sktches that have been fea­tured on In an inde­ter­mi­nate place here, or the com­plete col­lec­tion on Flickr.

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05.10.2010 – 12:15 am
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By Nipperkin
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As from his window

W. Eugene Smith at window

As from my win­dow, I observe with all the plea­sure of the­ater, I select from the chaos of a city the details to under­line a coherency. (Quoted in WES, 384)

The above lines by W. Eugene Smith were intended to intro­duce As from My Win­dow I Some­times Glance, a series of pho­tographs that he took from the win­dow of his stu­dio in what has come to be known as the “Jazz Loft” at 821 Sixth Avenue in New York. Smith moved into the space in 1957, sub­let­ting it from composer/jazz pianist Hall Over­ton with whom he shared the fourth floor.

The pre­vi­ous ten­ant was Harold Fein­stein, a friend and one-time assis­tant to Smith. Fein­stein had used the space as a dark­room, paint­ing all the win­dows black. Smith on the other hand used it as a cam­era obscura, cap­tur­ing fleet­ing scenes from the street below from the van­tage point of his fourth-floor win­dow. Friend Red Valens described a visit to “Stu­dio Ligan,” as Smith called it (“ligan” mean­ing “wreck­age”), in these terms:

He had six cam­eras loaded, and he was just sit­ting there, lean­ing out of the win­dow. One win­dow was open; in the other, the glass, which had been painted black, was bro­ken. Every five or ten min­utes he would take a shot. He had been sit­ting at the win­dow for about twenty hours before I got there, and he would do it for sev­eral days. I was there six or seven hours that night. I’d just sit there and hand him cam­eras. (WES, 337)

As Geoff Dyer noted, the title As from My Win­dow I Some­times Glance “was a thor­oughly mis­lead­ing descrip­tion of what was going on: Smith was not some­times glanc­ing, he was look­ing com­pul­sively, all the time, tak­ing more and more pic­tures.” (TOM, 165) In fact, in work­ing on the project Smith ulti­mately went through thou­sands of rolls of film and even made more work prints than he had for his epic Pitts­burgh essay of two years before and on which he was still osten­si­bly work­ing. (WES, 377) Per­haps unsur­pris­ingly, given his insis­tence on total edi­to­r­ial con­trol, cou­pled with his volatile per­son­al­ity and pro­fes­sional unpre­dictabil­ity (cre­ated and/or exac­er­bated by his exces­sive drug and alco­hol con­sump­tion), only a brief selec­tion of pho­tographs from As from My Win­dow I Some­times Glance ever saw the light of day dur­ing Smith’s life­time. Four­teen of them were pub­lished under the title “Drama from a City Win­dow” in Life mag­a­zine in March 1958.

The win­dow pho­tographs rep­re­sent a fas­ci­nat­ing depar­ture from Smith’s ear­lier work: a war cor­re­spon­dent who would come to rede­fine the photo essay, if not pho­to­jour­nal­ism alto­gether, Smith had pre­vi­ously turned his lens out­ward and focused it on cap­tur­ing the event, on telling the story, on mov­ing the viewer with that ver­sion of the truth his images could relate. When he moved into the Sixth Avenue loft, he turned his cam­era inward, so to speak, and trained it on the com­ings and goings of his own pri­vate world. Through the lens that had pre­vi­ously seen com­bat in the South Pacific, Albert Schweitzer in Africa, a vil­lage in west­ern Spain, a coun­try doc­tor in Col­orado, Smith was now peer­ing into the street from behind a bro­ken win­dow on the fourth floor of a run-down build­ing in Man­hat­tan. The big event was no longer of any inter­est; he was after the non-event, the banal, the quo­tid­ian, and doc­u­mented it with the same inten­sity of vision he brought to all of his work. As Jim Hughes observed:

Whereas with Pitts­burgh – and all his pre­vi­ous sto­ries – Gene had gone out in search of pic­tures, in the loft he remained sta­tion­ary, let­ting the pic­tures find him. It must have seemed as if some great pre­des­tined drama were play­ing itself out for his soli­tary amuse­ment. (WES, 377)

You can see a small selec­tion of pho­tographs from the series “As From My Win­dow I Some­times Glance” in the W. Eugene Smith gallery. Many more are included in Sam Stephenson’s The Jazz Loft Project: Pho­tographs and Tapes of W. Eugene Smith from 821 Sixth Avenue, 1957–1965. They appear along­side images from a con­tem­po­ra­ne­ous series, The Loft From Inside In, which chron­i­cles life inside the loft.

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Works Cited
WES: Hughes, Jim. W. Eugene Smith. Shadow and Sub­stance: The Life and Work of an Amer­i­can Pho­tog­ra­pher. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1989.
TOM: Dyer, Geoff. The Ongo­ing Moment. New York: Vin­tage, 2007.

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05.01.2010 – 12:15 am
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W. Eugene Smith gallery

from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”
from “As From My Window I Sometimes Glance”

This gallery con­tains a selec­tion of pho­tographs from the series As From My Win­dow I Some­times Glance by W. Eugene Smith. Click on a thumb­nail to enlarge it.

Return to “As from his win­dow”

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Published:
05.01.2010 – 12:10 am
Author:
By Nipperkin
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