Blow-Up
Blow-Up was on one of the movie channels last night. Odd because as I was watching it I realized how faulty my memories of it had been, first viewed during Robert Merritt's summer film class. I had thought it much more ambigious, didn't remember the corpse in the park at all. 1966: how old was David Hemmings then? As old as I still want to be and not want to be.
So at 4 am I woke up, fresh from a dream of saying goodbye to our wonderful interns who had worked with us during the summer. My mind raced with math: my son's age, Smiranda's age, my age, my mother's age -- and the gaps between us that seemed so small.
A curse of getting older is perspective, I think.
