The photography exhibit consists of three galleries of gel-print portraits circa 1947-1965.
It is an odd time of day and I am the solitary breathing soul in a mausoleum of muted ghosts.
Each captured image of a life no longer lived holds me in an observer-subject bearhug of a quest for immortality.
Can I give them what they most want?
Can I search for that moment in time when their eyes electrified space through a camera lens and asked me a favor?
I give unabashed attention to a gangly group of adolescent boys in jeans and white t-shirts, Uptown Chicago, 1953.
I can smell their Brylcream and cigarettes.
I can see the testosterone almost curl the edges of the printed paper.
I gave them what they wanted most when I was with them.
Do I really owe them that much more now that they are no longer here?
A quick check confirms there is no guard on duty yet.
I place a fingertip on each eager boy and close my eyes.