At the little house that overlooks the sea, dusk begins to osmose all hard edges, even our own.
The waves blur, and the trees fade to smoke, and the ghost lights from passing automobiles dip in reverence like pairs of swans.
You and I came back to the sea in order to watch nighttime emerge, to consider the fading light, to turn over and over in our hands these stories of three men who became photographers in a time when two world wars marred the landscape.
Two of them were naturalized citizens who had crossed oceans and ideas to get here.
One of them nearly faded into obscurity.
Because the night has arrived, we stand now in the dark on the porch of the little house by the sea. I do not look at you as I ask this question:
Where do you want to go next?
Here is what I do not say: Because I can take you anywhere in the world. Because we can leapfrog the years and the hours. Because it is time for us to depart again to find out how we got here, how you and I learned to hold a camera and consider a thousand-thousand options for a single photographic image.
I am smiling in the dark.
I am listening to the sea speak, but really— I am standing here, patiently, waiting for your reply.