Abnormal Norma Strolling through the supermarket, dreaming of avocados I am caught by a face. Itâ€™s a face, a womanâ€™s face, the face that swims through the world and will. I know nothing of the face so I buy her. As I turn her over and over at home, I see they are saying 50 years; 50 years is the reason I glimpsed her parting a pair of fire engine reds in the supermarket, with fingertips to match. On 16-17 she clings to Art. They are just wed, her and Art; 1956; summertime in the park. With a cigarette in the departed right hand of Art, and no ring on her grasping left, I do not wonder at the outcome. On 20-21 I find a disclaimer; a warning to proceed with distrust because only secrets could shape her lips in a way so enticing, so unsettling. They write that pages of pictures are incapable of the black smoke that billows out of flesh and bone, that the frozen lines of The Face splay out the things trapped in the famed crimson encasements. Yet I can not help but know that when such a sweet, synthetic serenity lies in each and every crease of every page and cheek, photographs such as these can only ever hold the most condemning of dishonesties.