#tmicronovel

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Iɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ sʜᴀᴡʟ #ilfotografo #kids_photo_gallery #dfpcommunity #familyblogger #family #timetobehave #fotografia #family #magazine35mm #collateralphoto #perimetromilano #contrasto #contrastphotography #unvaeljournal #realmagazine #anothertimemag #intercrumag #familyinfluencer #ourmagazine #reportageofmylife #romafotografiaeventi #analogphotography #insomniamag #theindipendentphoto #tmicronovel #worldviewmag #neamagazine #portrait #lover #vipphotomagazine #eyesopentalent (presso Quartu Sant'Elena) https://www.instagram.com/p/CNftzb7MsoZ/?igshid=1ouwamo1bd0bl

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(3 of 4) This month, the photographer @stephen.shore will have his most comprehensive retrospective yet at the MoMA. In honor of the occasion, we selected American writers to create short stories on some of his most iconic works. We’re publishing some of them here on Instagram for the first time as part of our #Tmicronovel series. Below, a story by Charles Yu, entitled “Contemplating Geologic Time While Eating a Filet-O-Fish Under a Cloudless Sky,” inspired by @stephen.shore’s “U.S. 89, Arizona, June 1972.” ▫️ “He kills the engine, gets out for some air. Opens the door and the potential energy of the fight quickly dissipates, carried away from them along with their voices, words spoken a minute ago propagating waveforms of fear, of love, tumbling down into the canyon, the historical event of their first argument now traveling outward in all directions to the ends of the universe, sounds they made halving themselves again and again, until somewhere, hundreds of feet below, they break against the rocks in a wash of ambient vibration. ▫️ He walks to the guardrail. Wonders if she’s worried he might do something dumb. On cue, her door opens now. She steps out. ▫️ The guy in line was a jerk. ▫️ Little late for that. ▫️ I’m sorry. I was . . . afraid he’d hit you. ▫️ You married a man with a chip on his shoulder. ▫️ I married a good man. ▫️ I have to be smarter than that. Back there. I can’t let them see my anger. They don’t like us here. ▫️ You’re just figuring that out now? ▫️ He unfolds the map, flattens it against the hood, fingers their route south by southeast, the thick straight line of the interstate branching off into thinner lanes, and then those breaking into small dots off the state roads. They are in the place between dots. ▫️ Where’d you go for your honeymoon? Oh, my husband took me nowhere. He laughs. She brings her hand to the back of his neck, squeezes gently, absorbing tension from him. She’ll do this countless times in the coming years. She’ll do it at the hospital, 53 years from now, her hand amid all of the tubes and beeping and machines, slipping along the pillow to cradle the back of his head, trying to give him a moment of comfort.”

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(2 of 4) This month, the photographer @stephen.shore will have his most comprehensive retrospective yet at the @themuseumofmodernart. In honor of the occasion, we selected American writers to create short stories or reflect on some of his most iconic works. We’re publishing some of them here on Instagram for the first time as part of our #Tmicronovel series. Below, a story by Danzy Senna, entitled “Watch Me,” inspired by @stephen.shore’s “Beverly Boulevard and La Brea Avenue, Los Angeles, California, June 21, 1975.” ▫️ “The girl wants a new pair of sunglasses. She tells him her plan. He will enter the shop ahead of her. They will pretend to be strangers. While the shop clerk trails him, scowling, the girl will do the stealing. She says, smiling slightly, You look like trouble. ▫️ He is an actor. He’s been a thug in a prison drama, a nameless friend on ‘Good Times.’ Tomorrow he is up for a part in a slavery-era miniseries. Every actor he knows is going to be there, wearing his most downtrodden face. It’s the chance of a lifetime. ▫️ Inside the store, he sifts through a rack of clothes. The sales clerk watches from a few feet away. ▫️ The girl has entered the shop. She looks somewhere between Marcia Brady and a Manson girl. He goes into a dressing room and tries on the shirt. By the time he comes out, she is already gone. ▫️ Outside on La Brea the light has shifted. Whoever said there were no seasons here was wrong. He can smell the beginning of summer. He searches the street for the girl, walks up past the Chevron station, to the block where they parked the car. She’s there, in the passenger’s seat, wearing the stolen sunglasses. ▫️ He tries to remember the first time he saw Los Angeles. He remembers the bus ride, the gum wrappers at his feet, but he cannot remember arriving. It sneaked up on him, a thing he didn’t notice until he was already inside it, a clutter of road signs and candy-colored cars. ▫️ He gets in beside her. She says she’s hungry, can they go to Pink’s. He starts up the engine, thinking about tomorrow, the audition. It’s a million to one, the chance they will pick him as a slave.”

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(Part 5 of 6) Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (@chimamanda_adichie) appears on the cover of T's Greats issue. In honor of the occasion, she wrote this story, "Janelle Asked to the Bedroom," exclusively for us. We're publishing it here on Instagram for the first time as part of a new #Tmicronovel series. Illustrations by #KonstantinKakanias. ▫️ “Janelle, do you have children?” Mrs. T asked after the call. ▫️ “Yes, I have a son,” Janelle said. She would not have done so before, but because of the fleeting intimacy of this moment in this room with this woman whose sadness and strangeness had loosened in Janelle something usually tightly bound, she said, “He’s going to Harvard this fall.” And she remembered again the blinding pride of the day the letter came, her son delighted by her screaming, but telling he still wanted to consider the other acceptances from Williams and Yale. And later, she and Marvin had held each other and reminisced about the difficult years, the moving for better schools, the scraping to go private, the dreams and fears they had for their dark, tall, muscular son, so intelligent, so earnest, so sensitive. ▫️ “Harvard?” Mrs. T said. “The school?” ▫️ Janelle’s body tensed. “Yes, Harvard the school.” ▫️ “He got scholarship to go?” Mrs. T said, more statement than question. ▫️ How automatic, this assumption of a scholarship, and Janelle knew she meant a scholarship not of smarts but of skin. ▫️ The sudden force of Janelle’s rage shook her. She stood up from the bed and faced Mrs. T. ▫️ “People like you think we never earn anything, we never achieve anything,” Janelle said. ▫️ Mrs. T looked confused. “I am sorry. I think you misunderstand me.” ▫️ “You never finished college but you kept lying about it.” ▫️ Now there were tears in Mrs. T’s eyes. “I am sorry, this is not what I mean. Please do not go.”

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(Part 3 of 6) Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (@chimamanda_adichie) appears on the cover of T's Greats issue. In honor of the occasion, she wrote this story, ""Janelle Asked to the Bedroom,"" exclusively for us. We're publishing it here on Instagram for the first time as part of a new #Tmicronovel series. Illustrations by #KonstantinKakanias.▫️ “I don’t feel comfortable sitting down,” she said. “Is everything O.K.?” ▫️ “Please sit down,” Mrs. T said. “Please.” ▫️ Her voice was shaky. Janelle walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. How was it that these white people were so powerful and yet she often felt sorry for them? ▫️ “This weekend I was by myself and I was thinking about many things,” Mrs. T said. ▫️ Janelle said nothing. ▫️ “How was your weekend?” Mrs. T asked. ▫️ “It was good, thanks.” ▫️ “You do anything?” ▫️ “No, not really. It was quiet.” Janelle had in fact been at a rally on Saturday, holding a placard her son had made for her, pale blue cardboard, edges sealed with tape, bold words colored in: HEALTH CARE = HUMAN RIGHT. ▫️ “Look, I am watching this,” Mrs. T said, and turned her laptop around. A YouTube video of Michelle Obama visiting a class. Even from her quick glance, Janelle noticed the elegant ease of her manner, the glow of her beautiful brown legs. ▫️ “We all miss her,” Janelle said, and only after the words had left her mouth did she wish she could take them back. It had come so quickly, those words that she and everyone she knew said whenever Michelle Obama came up, that she had forgotten to whom she was speaking. But Mrs. T seemed not to have heard. She gestured to Janelle to come closer. ▫️ “Look at this. I always look at them for the inspiration.” ▫️ She clicked on a folder and launched a series of photos of Michelle Obama, each filling the screen, from the early years of her high-placed belt, to the later years of the subtly swingy weave. Mrs. T watched with concentration, as though seeing them for the first time. Minutes passed. Mrs. T seemed to expect Janelle to get into this strange photo-viewing exercise. ▫️ “That’s a lot of pictures,” Janelle said.

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(Part 2 of 6) Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (@chimamanda_adichie) appears on the cover of T's Greats issue. In honor of the occasion, she wrote this story, "Janelle Asked to the Bedroom," exclusively for us. We're publishing it here on Instagram for the first time as part of a new #Tmicronovel series. Illustrations by #KonstantinKakanias. ▫️ “Hi Janelle, sit down here,” she said, patting the bed, and Janelle knew right away that something was off. ▫️ Mrs. T had changed after her husband won the election. A great lonely sadness had settled on her, stiffening her shoulders and spine. Her Pilates suffered. Simple moves she had fluidly done before failed her: Her back would not flatten doing the hundreds, her legs would not point to the sky. Week after week, Janelle saw the heaviness of her spirit, the purplish bags under her eyes, the way her English worsened and slurred from fatigue. ▫️ But today was different. Mrs. T had, until now, never let go of that carefulness that seemed to Janelle a product of being the wrong kind of European, a knowingness, a determination never to be found out. Which perhaps was why she hardly drank and why she spoke of drugs with disdain. But today she looked disheveled, her manner distracted. Was she on something? Had she cracked and taken pills? She seemed like a ravaged flightless bird, and the bed’s carved gold headboard part of an open cage that she inexplicably could not leave. “Is everything O.K.?” Janelle asked, still standing, her professional face pleasantly blank, her voice even. “If you don’t feel up to it today, we can reschedule for tomorrow.” “Please sit down,” Mrs. T said. ▫️ Janelle remained standing. Of course she had noticed Mrs. T’s overtures over the past months, the lost longing in Mrs. T’s eyes, the tentative invitations. Would you like a glass of juice, Janelle? Do you know a person good in massage, Janelle? You are always in a rush to leave, Janelle. But they had happened less and less since her husband won, as though her sadness had overpowered her longing. And Janelle wasn’t sure what this was about, being asked into this room with its dense carpet and wide bed, but she would entertain no crap.

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(Part 1 of 6) Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (@chimamanda_adichie) appears on the cover of T's Greats issue. In honor of the occasion, she wrote this story, "Janelle Asked to the Bedroom," exclusively for us. We're publishing it here on Instagram for the first time as part of a new #Tmicronovel series. Illustrations by #KonstantinKakanias. Janelle was surprised when the butler asked her to come up to the bedroom. He looked disapproving, stiffly leading the way upstairs, as though he thought her unworthy to be allowed anywhere farther than the lowest floor where the gym was. Janelle followed him through the apartment; there was gold everywhere, on the floors and armchairs and edges of walls, that gave the décor a sallow ugliness. It felt to Janelle like an oblivious person’s idea of a wealthy home. She knew the butler expected her to be impressed — he had the sly arrogance of a blindly loyal servant — and for a moment she wanted to burst into laughter. She would not live here if she were paid to. Imagine waking everyday to such crass cheerlessness. With a sigh in his manner, clearly wishing Mrs. T had not made this unusual request, he knocked on the bedroom door. It, too, was edged in gold. He waited to hear “come in” before ushering Janelle in, and then he lingered a moment, as if he might need to protect Mrs. T. But Mrs. T waved him away. She was propped against a hundred pillows cradling her laptop.