Exposição
The hundred days are on the wall now, held there by clothes pegs and paper tape. Nothing is framed. Washing gets hung like this, by people who expect to take it in again. Head-on it reads as a grid. I kept standing at the end of the row instead, where the lines run away from you and the far days go soft. From there it stops being a hundred pictures and goes back to being one walk. A leaf in a hand. A tree that leans. Gravel, mostly. The pegs and the tape are holding. Come and see.
