So much of her life has been lost to her. Each day, more falls away. Tattered and unraveling. Her heart is beating hard in this unfamiliar place that smells of paint, clay, turpentine, whiskey. Sweet-rancid rot.

Vann sees. Vann understands. He has lost much, himself. The sag of his shoulders, the flaccid gut. Bloodshot eyes.

Not quickly, but carefully, he approaches her. As one might approach a butterfly lighted upon a flower.

“You seem upset, dear. Are you remembering something that makes you sad?”

“N-No.”

Feeling compelled to add, as Vann observes her, “Not really.”

“Your college friend who is ill. You said.”

“My friend—?” But has she told the stranger about Mia? In her awkward flirtation with the artist who calls himself Vnn, has she really been so crass as to exploit Mia’s illness? She doesn’t think so.

Vann is determined to change the tone of their conversation. Telling her that the waterfront area is being developed. There will be a condominium complex on the river. Offices. A publication—Art in Detroit.

“A very good time for investing. For investors.”

To this L.K. has nothing to say. (Does he want her to invest money in Durant artists? In him?)

“You might consider an article about the Durant. My friends and me. Take pictures—we’re photogenic.”

If this is meant as a joke, it is a clumsy joke. Offensive to her.

As if L.K. has nothing better to do, nothing of more significance in her life than to write about the local Detroit art scene. An older woman groupie attaching herself to avant-garde artistes.

It is true, in her past life she might have written about the “resurgence” of Detroit. Might’ve called it the late, great American city Detroit.

She’d done such work, freelance photojournalism. She’d known everyone, she’d driven everywhere and had rarely been afraid or in danger, and if so, only fleetingly.

But now the local magazines that might have published such an article, part cultural criticism, part commercial promotion, have vanished. Shuttered years ago.

She’d left her camera at the hotel. Probably she would not remove it from the tote bag. Where once the camera had been an extension of her soul, now it has become mere equipment, an impediment that feels heavy in her hands, pretentious. Vain.

Still, the camera fixes her vision. Cuts her vision to size.

A visual artist cannot fathom eternity/infinity. The viewfinder makes art possible.

She comes to position herself before one of the kites hanging from the ceiling on a wire. Is this new? Is the artist working on it at the present time? Much of Vnn’s art looks unfinished, raw. Canvases with absences, blanks. That which is unspoken, undefined. The sort of art that L.K. has attempted is overfilled: she has felt that she must explain too much. Her art has been choked, airless.

Nature abhors a vacuum. It takes a certain degree of audacity to leave much open, untouched.