Welding with Children Read Online Free PDF

just a bit out of focus, and in the lower-right corner was a blurred foot, as though someone had just run in front of her before the shutter tripped. The twelfth frame had not been exposed.
    In the store the next day, Mel took in a pair of Leicas and three old Voightlanders from a pawnbroker. Mr. Weinstein examined his purchases and nodded. Then he noticed the photos of the woman on Mel’s workbench.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œShe was in that Rollei I bought.”
    Weinstein picked up a print and sucked a tooth. “Those were the days when women looked like women.” He shook his shiny head. “What’re you going to do with these?”
    â€œWell, just look at the composition. They’re sort of ‘found art,’ I guess, and for the first time I have a live person connected with a roll of film of this quality. I was going to call that girl to see if she wanted them. Might be a relative.”
    Weinstein arched an eyebrow. “And?”
    â€œYou know, ask her some questions. Get into the photograph.” He looked down. “I wish I knew where this was.”
    Weinstein sniffed. “Even I know that. See that one print? That’s the Mississippi, and that blurred thing across it is Algiers Courthouse. This is some old harbor excursion boat I don’t recognize. God, we used to have fun on those things.”
    â€œYou got a guess as to what year?”
    â€œHell, I don’t know. It’s not the regular boat. The President was at the foot of Canal Street for fifty years. This boat I don’t recognize at all.” He looked down at Mel, who was sitting with a Graflex on his lap. “Still got the scrapbook, huh? What do you get out of looking at that old stuff?”
    Mel picked up a photo of the woman. “I like trying to figure out what I’m looking at.”
    Weinstein raised a hand. “Then look at it.”
    â€œNo. I like to interpret what’s there.”
    â€œYou confusing art with reality? There’s a difference, you know.”
    Mel looked to his left into the street. “Life can’t be art?”
    Mr. Weinstein put a hand on his shoulder. “Mel, this is not art. It’s a person in a photograph. When you try to think about these common images, you’re not interpreting; you’re being … well, nosy.”
    Mel was offended. “You think so?” he said, looking the Graflex uncomfortably in the eye.
    *   *   *
    He called the girl and found that she lived off Carrolton Avenue, more or less on his way home. He told her he’d drop off copies of the photographs, and she sounded polite and uninterested. In the back of his mind, he thought the woman might still be alive, and he could offer to photograph her.
    The girl who’d sold the camera lived in a modern apartment building, and she met him in the lobby. After several moments of examining the prints, she touched her hair with a white hand and said slowly, “Wait a minute,” and he watched her face descend into an unhappy place. “This is probably my grandmother. I never knew her because she died when my mother was young—a baby, really. I feel I know her, though, because my grandfather had photographs of her on his desk all his life. She was Amanda Springer.” The girl took the set of photos Mel offered and cradled them at her waist. “He really loved her. Everyone said that.”
    â€œDo you know when she passed away?”
    â€œSometime in the fifties, I think. Grampa wouldn’t talk about how she died.”
    â€œShe must have been a wonderful person.”
    â€œI’m sure. But like I said, I never met her. And it’s strange, but no one in the family ever said much specific about her, not even Grampa.” She pulled out one of the photographs, a close-up, and handed him the rest. “This one’s nice. She looks really happy. I don’t need the others. I can’t stand things