Oh, the fifty. The honest speaker, and the most cunning liar. The boring normal that takes a lifetime to master. The lens that suggests, whispers, and beguiles, rather than shouts, insists, and spotlights. The lens of my life: the one I'd give up last of all, if cruel destiny made me sell my glass, one by bitter one.

There is a fuzzy area between the exuberant wide-angles and the ever-growing phalluses of telephotos, the no-man's land of "normal." It begins somewhere around 35 millimeters, and extends to somewhere just below 100. There is acrimony over which length is the real "normal," as if there were some magical natural way to project the three-dimensional world onto a flat paper. Some swear by the versatile 35, others by the intimate 85... but I am and will always remain true to the Fifty.

"Bric-à-brac" (Tyre, 2002)

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