ABSTRACT
July 8 . Arles. I am looking at a photograph. I have been looking at it for days now. The photo keeps calling me to take another look, and another after that. The image has taken possession of me like a restless spirit from elsewhere seizing hold of an unknowing mortal. I fi nd myself swooning into the image much as I have fallen into deep afternoon sleeps after arriving jet-lagged in Paris: when I wake hours later into a funk of grogginess, unsure where I or who I am in the world or what day or hour it is, the sleep rears up and pulls me back down into the depth of dreams and murmured voices.
