[ She's been with the campaign for a over under a month now and already D. Remie thinks she got Tommy Carcetti's game all figured out. It's part hubris on her part and part obviousness on his, a mix of youthful bullheadedness on both their parts, working in concert to create a caricature in D. Remie's mind which she looks for and waits for and constantly photographs. (An error on her part, an unfairness; her job wasn't to validate the version of truth that she wanted, but to document every version of truth that she came across — from every possible angle, as frequently and as often as possible, both in color and black and white and a thousand shades of grey.)
He's talking and it seems like she's not paying attention, her her gaze still lowered, her hands still fiddling with the camera. Then she catches something out of the corner of her eye, a gesture he's made moving across her peripheral vision and that's when she feels the twinge and the itch, that knee-jerk compulsion that tells her: now, do it now (do it now or miss the shot and beat yourself up over for the next week and a half).
Wind wind wind and without much warning the camera's up and pointed in Carcetti's direction. There's a click, a slide of the focus ring, a whir and then another click. Wind. When D. Remie closes her lead eye she can still see the imagine fizzling against her retina — the tones inversed and oddly moonlight blues and melting yellows as it dissolves slowly back to the black of the insides of her eyelids. (The crane of his head across the back of the chair, the twist of his shoulders, his tie a little loose. Carcetti looks like he's playing at being attentive only D. Remie knows he's not — he's distracted and a little irritable and not really paying attention to her at all. It's a photographer's sleight of hand, another tool in their toolbox beyond the film and the lenses. Remove a moment from all context, from the greater continuity of movement and time, and it can mean virtually anything.)
Her eye opens again behind the camera. Her finger twitches again. Click, whirl. Wind. ]
The commentary only comes in two flavors. Wise or questionable. Take your pick.
no subject
He's talking and it seems like she's not paying attention, her her gaze still lowered, her hands still fiddling with the camera. Then she catches something out of the corner of her eye, a gesture he's made moving across her peripheral vision and that's when she feels the twinge and the itch, that knee-jerk compulsion that tells her: now, do it now (do it now or miss the shot and beat yourself up over for the next week and a half).
Wind wind wind and without much warning the camera's up and pointed in Carcetti's direction. There's a click, a slide of the focus ring, a whir and then another click. Wind. When D. Remie closes her lead eye she can still see the imagine fizzling against her retina — the tones inversed and oddly moonlight blues and melting yellows as it dissolves slowly back to the black of the insides of her eyelids. (The crane of his head across the back of the chair, the twist of his shoulders, his tie a little loose. Carcetti looks like he's playing at being attentive only D. Remie knows he's not — he's distracted and a little irritable and not really paying attention to her at all. It's a photographer's sleight of hand, another tool in their toolbox beyond the film and the lenses. Remove a moment from all context, from the greater continuity of movement and time, and it can mean virtually anything.)
Her eye opens again behind the camera. Her finger twitches again. Click, whirl. Wind. ]
The commentary only comes in two flavors. Wise or questionable. Take your pick.