In Photography, Writing

“It was Steiglitz.”

“It was Strand.”

“Which one was banging O’Keefe?”

“What?”

“One of those guys was sleeping with O’Keefe.”

“Oh.”

“Ansel Adams?”

“He wasn’t sleeping with O’Keefe, was he?”

“He might have been. Her paintings of flowers always made me feel ‘funny’.”

“Can we stop talking about who was or wasn’t sleeping with O’Keefe. We’re talking about the fence.”

“We are? I thought we were talking about Paul Strand or Albrecht Stieglitz.”

“Who the hell is Albrecht?”

“The photographer who took the photo of the fence.”

“No. It wasn’t Albrecht. It was Alfred. Alfred Stieglitz.”

“Who the hell is Alfred Stieglitz?”

“He’s the one that was banging Georgia O’Keefe.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“By the way, your photo is out of focus and looks nothing like the white fence, port kent, 1916 by Paul Strand.

“I never said it looked like it. I said that any picket fence photo reminds me of Paul Strand.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why were you so obsessed with who was sleeping with Georgia O’Keefe?”

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