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Only small issues. Of friendship. Of relationship. Of whispered phrases and secret ideas in the quiet intimacy of trust. Of the primacy of character over circumstance. Because what you see are faces. Faces that reveal, that don’t conceal, the soul. Faces as fluid as goals. Faces that inform of all the hope of being young, not yet hardened into masks, not but burdened by the opportunity of defeat. The images are all in black and white. Traditionally black and ????? ????? ??? ?? white photography is taken into account more “real”, ????? ????? ?????? more truthful than colour images. But that is foolish, says Winship, because the actual world is in colour, not black and white, and her use of the medium is intended to denote the alternative, that it is a construct, ????? ????? ?????? ????? and never actuality. Not that the girls aren’t actual. They are very real. As she says: “The photographs are in truth very much posed pictures, they’re probably the most formal sort of photos I’ve ever made, in that I put them into the house I had created for them if you want.

Jennifer picked up one other pink stone, this one on the waterline of a small lake, and stuffed it into her bulging pocket. The voice of a little bit boy called from the lake, barely breaking the silence. He was calling for help. Jennifer scanned the floor until she could make out what might need been the boy’s head so she stepped into the water to get nearer. Cigarette smoke invaded her nostril, a scent she had learned to hate before her father stop the nasty habit. She turned to face the shore. A man stood outside the road of trees drawing on a cigarette, the tip glowing towards the darkish backdrop of the forest. With one hand he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew twin jets of smoke from his nostrils. With the opposite hand he tossed something, and a small crimson stone landed at Jennifer’s ft within the mud.

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