There's a moment I think back to every now and again... it was just a little under two years ago on a bitterly cold day. An instructor at school had taken a group of us out on a photo field trip to the Oregon District in downtown Dayton. I was walking around with a classmate whom I'd recently befriended, and as I stood on a planter and aimed my camera at something, she told me to stand still. She was taking a picture of my silhouette reflected in a storefront window. I was actively becoming the substance of someone else's creativity. An artist was holding me in enough regard to integrate me into their body of work. Standing there frozen with my camera's viewfinder to eye, my heart leaped at the honor!

It was a feeling that, in retrospect, I almost compare to when Dark Haired Girl would look at me with... you know, that look. Try as I might to deny it to myself, I knew I was being adored.

To be looked upon as a worthy subject by a fine artist is, in my mind, nearly the same sensation as to be admired by a lover.