88" class="Chapter">Where Dreams Are Born (excerpt)
Russell locked his studio’s door behind the last of the staff, leaned his back against it, and turned off his camera.
He knew it was good. The images were there; he’d really captured them.
But something was missing.
The groove ran so clean when he slid into it. First his Manhattan high-ceilinged loft would fade into the background, then the strobe lights, reflector umbrellas, and blue and green backdrops all became texture and tone.
Image, camera, and man then became one and they were all that mattered—a single flow of light, beginning before time was counted, and ending its journey in the printed image. One ray of primordial light traveling forever to glisten off the BMW roadster still parked in one corner of the rough-planked wo
