I will leave by then. No, he says. I need permission to use a tripod. But the office is closed and, sadly, I will be leaving Paris in the morning. I glance longingly down the row of barren trees where I had just set up my camera, the light sifting delicately onto a pair of chairs.
Pinhole photography can be like a demanding child whose needs seem to come before anyone else's.
After film is exposed and schlepped back to the hotel in water-filled plastic bags, I spend evenings on my knees in the bathroom. Here I carefully tend to the processing and cleaning of the big Polaroid negatives, trying to avoid the nicks and scratches that sometimes occur in spite of my best efforts. After the washing is done, I hang the negatives on a clothesline strung from shower to door. My husband and I can finally go out to dinner. Bien , I nod.