During the morning commute, a co-worker hands me a photocopy of a story on photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson that ran in Vanity Fair.
“I hate that guy!” a passenger protests loudly across the aisle as he taps on a silver laptop keyboard. “That’s that Henri Cartier-Bresson guy!”
Startled, I look in the direction of the booming voice with a who-asked-you scowl. But before I can spew, the guy adds: “Decisive Moment, one picture–I hate that.”
As a photojournalist, I’m an admirer of the French photographer. At this point, I refocus my mind, slow my pulse and remove the boulder of information I’m about to lob to crush any more thoughts flowing from this guy. I think, “Wow, I’m on a train coming out of northwest Indiana, and here is somebody who knows who Cartier-Bresson is.”
You gotta respect that.
