I always spend a day or two in a state of discombobulation when my sometimes-pregnant wife goes out of town. My bad, I suppose, for marrying someone so brilliant and beautiful. This time, she'll be gone for five days, thanks much to the blasted Conference on College Composition and Communications, which has the nerve to take place every goddam year.
When I need a cure for the CCCC blues, I turn to a picture, taken on her 30th birthday, which we celebrated in Bordeaux in the year of our Lord twenty and aught-seven.
Throbbing with energy, passion, scepters, orbs and frenzied horses, this is undoubtedly the best picture I've taken in my life. I cannot unlock for you the many mysteries secreted herein; just know that this shot represents the lone instance in which my sometimes-mystical wife's magical powers have been captured on film. I do not know what was communicated from wife to horse and horse to wife via rainbow connection, and anyways I doubt that my feeble, unmagical brain could ever fully understand.
All I know is that, as an artist, this was my finest hour. Is it too much to call it the greatest photograph of all time? I submit that it is not.