It’s a bright September day. Pillars of water twist heavenward from the Lincoln Center promenade fountain. Bodies mill to and from a white archway at the upper-left most corner of the terrace—perfect bodies, bodies on stilts, attached to phones and umbrellas (it had been raining just an hour ago) and pert little clutches made of animal skins. Another set of bodies—clad mostly in black, attached to digital cameras—flanks the other corner and keeps close. A perfect body stops, a camera clicks; a perfect body doesn’t stop, a camera clicks; a perfect body stops, a camera remains silent.
