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I have spent the greater part of my adult life looking at photographs of other people's lives, deciding, with what I took to be a connoisseur's detachment, which of them deserved a wall and which a polite letter of refusal, and it did not occur to me, not once in all those years of bent-over light tables and contact sheets held up to the window, that I would one day require a frame for my own, that the practiced eye which had taught itself to find the half-second in which a c