On the basis of one or maybe two such portraits, massaged and photoshopped into Disneyland, continents are crossed hither and thither. Yet these two-dimensional images of an unknown, perhaps even dead, or clipped from a magazine pout and a silent simper, seem to have the power to seduce the nascent dream of something to do with the body, the hope of a coupling kindled by a brief digital click of the shutterless eye in the box we call a camera.
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