I read the obituary of a professional photographer who recently died. I had met him once. “Who are you? Are you a █████?” “No, I’m █████” “Then you need to get out.”
I didn’t know that’s who he was at that point in time when we met, though I had followed and admired much of his journalistic work. He was not gruff, or rude. He was simply busy. I don’t recall seeing him afterwards—we were probably both busy attending to our respective affairs, though he likely kept his eyes on me from a distance—I spoke, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was involved in post-production somehow. The obituary featured a sensitive photo of him… Hands together, looking down at the table in his glasses, thinking. I would have liked to know him, or to work with him. But now it’s too late.