"Aha," she said.
"How do you get by?" he asked.
"I do all right with photography, commercial work. I teach a couple of courses. When I get the chance, I do my own stuff; I have a show every couple of years if I can."
"The only photographer besides Ansel Adams and Cartier-Bresson that I can remember is the Hungarian guy, Kertesz." Mo looked at him sharply. "His pictures of New York are so still," Joe said, "like etchings, but they're awake. There is always something—tracks in the snow, a falling leaf, something that echoes time."
"Wonderful," she agreed. "I love his early Paris shots. You know about
Kertesz? You're full of surprises."
"My father is a painter."
"So you grew up with it?"
"Actually, I was raised by my grandparents. My mother died when I was a kid. Did you ever hear of Franz Griessler, the painter?"
"Yes, I've seen some of his work."
"I met him once. Want to hear about it?"