so the paintings and photographs lining the walls seemed to come in and out of focus.
To see all of Mychal’s picture, you had to stand against the opposite wall of the tunnel.
It really was an amazing artwork—Prisoner 101 looked as real as anyone,
but he was made from pieces of the one hundred mugshots Mychal had found of men convicted of murder and then exonerated.
Even up close, I couldn’t tell that Prisoner 101 wasn’t real.
The rest of the art was cool, too—big abstract paintings of hard-edged geometric shapes,
an assemblage of old wooden chairs precariously stacked to the ceiling,
a huge photograph of a kid jumping on a trampoline alone in a vast harvested cornfield—
but Mychal’s was my favorite, and not just because I knew him.
After a while, we heard a clamor of voices approach, and the gallery became crowded.
Someone had set up a stereo, and music began reverberating through the tunnel.
Plastic cups were passed around, and then bottles of wine, and the place got louder and louder,
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색