In Manhattan, it is not possible for me to leave my apartment without encountering arresting – sometimes haunting – faces. Go anywhere – the pier, the subway, the library.
A Dorothea Lange moment at the library (see Lange’s “Migrant Mother”.)
In the subway on Mother’s Day, some passengers carried bouquets. This young man carried a single long-stemmed rose for his Mother. What is the next stop for him?
Not faces, but two backs. (Proust would call the mass a “polypary.”)