Passing wet chicory that lies in the field like the sky.
David crosses the fire-warmed, cream-coloured carpet of the master bedroom and grabs the third handle of the chest-of-drawers, where he keeps his Nikon FA. He spends the rest of the morning taking photographs of Philip. He loves the feel of a camera in his hands. He loves the vibration of the shutter blinking, snapping. Of tiny cogs and gears zipping and spinning. He can almost feel the light burning into the film. He has an eye for framework and the potential of negative space. The subject is not always the subject. The subject is a starting place, like falling in love. The temperature of love is violent and erratic. One must study it in all of its degrees, at all of its registers. David likes to make light behave in deviating patterns. And while he snaps images of Philip he talks about it. "Sometimes I get a picture which speaks more of the light than the subject. But I try not to think about that too much because nobody seems to know what light is exactly."
Philip, before long, finds he is posing for David. He becomes more aware of the light hitting his body, of the light illuminating the white bed sheets. He becomes aware, slightly, of the shadows being cast.
"There are two dominant ideas. The one that interests me the most supposes that a ray of light is a series of little bundles of energy called quanta, all in a row."
Philip turns his body to expose his back and legs, with the bed sheet still tangled around his torso. He holds the white coffee mug and looks into it as though it were a grail.
"The quantum theory is the most advanced but it is difficult to understand and requires tough math."
Philip is in left profile when he blows the steam away from the mug and whispers, "Screw the math, tell me the truth."
David is crouched to the left of Philip so that he is at a 19-degree angle below the subject, feeding off a diffuse refraction of sunlight that hits the subject from 56 degrees above. He replies slowly, barely able to concentrate enough to read Philipıs lips, "No math, no truth."
Philip is like a bust or vase sitting on a wide pedestal. From Davidıs initial angle, the surface of the bed is invisible. He moves three paces to the right flattening the angle so that Philipıs chin is just above making horizontal contact with the lens. "Chin up and to the right please." Click. "Thank you."
David continues his circular study in 6 varying portraits from 6 ascending angles, the last of which he could only achieve by standing on a night table.
He finishes by thanking Philip in a way that only a man can thank another man.
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