Eggleston

There is a set of amazing, new-to-me photographs on view at the Met right now.  This William Eggleston fellow, do you know his work?  Because his photographs stopped me in my tracks.  His tones are remarkably vibrant, saturated, and crisp.  His subjects are muted, but not as reserved as you'd think; they are not so intense as they are real.  His images capture so much of what I associate with America, its people, its places, its iconic materials.  How is that possible?  According to the plate next to this print, he took this the year I was born, but far away in another part of the country entirely.  Louisiana was no Pennsylvania, I'm sure.  And yet, the table caddy branded with the familiar red Winston logo brought me right back to the days I slunk away at my parents' Germantown dry cleaners.

I'd frequently be sent around the corner to fetch my dad his cigarettes.  One day, even though the lady recognized me, she sent me back to get a signed note from my father giving permission to let his daughter make the purchase on his behalf.  The handwritten paper slips worked for a while, but turned useless once the law forbade sales of cancer sticks to minors.  My lazy pops had a hard time registering this turn of events when I came back empty-handed one day.  But it worked out in the end because when he went, he'd sometimes stop by the Gold's Gym next door where they had a freezer full of real-fruit frozen treats.  On those days, he'd return with a strawberry for me and coconut for him.

At the Met. (Pardon the graininess.  Photo taken on my phone.)