From the Fiction Issue: Miami, by A.L. Major – Photos by Nan Goldin
Morgan printed the photos and laid them flat on the table. The photos were of a topless white woman with red and curled hair. She was tan and oiled, and she wore a sparkly gold thong. She was sprawled on the sand, on all fours, on her back, on her side. She had sandy, fat nipples and a paw print on each breast. Must be an American, Morgan thought. Only Americans would do this. She stuffed the photos into an envelope labeled private, not caring if she bent them.
Morgan had been working for six months now at Mr. Rolle’s Photography Shop, located on the left side of the Colony Hotel, away from the 100-foot pool and cabanas and rooms, down the broken escalator, at the end of a long line of average souvenir stores. Morgan saw a lot of strange photos working at the shop—backward-capped frat boys mooning the camera, really, really close-up body parts—but these photos of the topless women were the strangest. Her co-worker, Mr. Wilson, had taken them. He was a white man with a gold molar. His face was beet red because he roamed the beach taking photos of tourists who would then come to the shop and pay for a copy, if they liked what they saw. In the window of Mr. Rolle’s Photography Shop, Mr. Wilson had taped photos of white girls with sunburnt faces and cornrows and captions like, “Only in Di Bahamas, Mon!”
Mr. Wilson wasn’t so bad. Morgan liked the way he looked at her—in the same way she liked when men in cars honked at her and when men outside the numbers shops ssk-ssk’d her. Mr. Wilson had a strong American accent and a charming way of addressing her that made her feel like a woman and not a 14-year-old girl. She liked the way he called her Sugar. 
“If I were a few years younger, I could handle you.”
“What do you mean a few years younger?” Morgan asked him. 
“You don’t think I’m too old for you?”
“No, Mr. Wilson.”  
“Don’t call me Mr. Wilson then. My name is David.”
Morgan nodded and smiled. She would keep calling him Mr. Wilson.
“How old are you anyway?” he asked. 
“Sixteen,” she lied.
“You’re trouble,” he said. “You got a man.”
“No.”
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From the Fiction Issue: Miami, by A.L. Major – Photos by Nan Goldin

Morgan printed the photos and laid them flat on the table. The photos were of a topless white woman with red and curled hair. She was tan and oiled, and she wore a sparkly gold thong. She was sprawled on the sand, on all fours, on her back, on her side. She had sandy, fat nipples and a paw print on each breast. Must be an American, Morgan thought. Only Americans would do this. She stuffed the photos into an envelope labeled private, not caring if she bent them.

Morgan had been working for six months now at Mr. Rolle’s Photography Shop, located on the left side of the Colony Hotel, away from the 100-foot pool and cabanas and rooms, down the broken escalator, at the end of a long line of average souvenir stores. Morgan saw a lot of strange photos working at the shop—backward-capped frat boys mooning the camera, really, really close-up body parts—but these photos of the topless women were the strangest. Her co-worker, Mr. Wilson, had taken them. He was a white man with a gold molar. His face was beet red because he roamed the beach taking photos of tourists who would then come to the shop and pay for a copy, if they liked what they saw. In the window of Mr. Rolle’s Photography Shop, Mr. Wilson had taped photos of white girls with sunburnt faces and cornrows and captions like, “Only in Di Bahamas, Mon!”

Mr. Wilson wasn’t so bad. Morgan liked the way he looked at her—in the same way she liked when men in cars honked at her and when men outside the numbers shops ssk-ssk’d her. Mr. Wilson had a strong American accent and a charming way of addressing her that made her feel like a woman and not a 14-year-old girl. She liked the way he called her Sugar. 

“If I were a few years younger, I could handle you.”

“What do you mean a few years younger?” Morgan asked him. 

“You don’t think I’m too old for you?”

“No, Mr. Wilson.”  

“Don’t call me Mr. Wilson then. My name is David.”

Morgan nodded and smiled. She would keep calling him Mr. Wilson.

“How old are you anyway?” he asked. 

“Sixteen,” she lied.

“You’re trouble,” he said. “You got a man.”

“No.”

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When we first saw the line up for the new photo show opening tomorrow at the Aperture Foundation Gallery, simply titled Photography, we fell out of our chairs. The show features new (new!) work from William Eggleston, Nan Goldin, Ryan McGinley, Martin Parr, Terry Richardson, and Stephen Shore. You don’t have to be a photo nerd to know that this selection of artists are some of the most important photographers making work today. To have new work by them all in one room is crazy. We decided we had to sit down with Ken Miller, the curator of the show, to figure out how he pulled it off. Turns out it was pretty simple.

VICE: What’s up, Ken? How did this project start?
Ken Miller: It started with a sort of unrelated exhibition of abstract photography that I did in Tokyo about a year and a half ago. That was kind of a weird way for it to begin. It was a show with Sam Falls, Marcelo Gomes, Mariah Robertson, and this Japanese photographer named Taisuke Koyama. Somebody from Fujifilm came by and I guess they liked the show, so they got in touch. They took me out to drinks and showed me these cameras they were coming out with and were like “Do you think you could get photographers to use these?” The cameras were really nice, so I was like, “Yeah probably, it’s a free camera.”

We started putting a list of photographers together. I was initially thinking of people I’d worked with before, who seemed easy to approach. Then I thought, Fuck it. I’ll just ask ambitiously and worst comes to worst, they’ll say no. And amazingly, basically everybody said yes. Of the initial people we asked, only two passed for different reasons. It was remarkably easy.

That’s pretty amazing.
I don’t want to sound like an advertisement for the camera, but it’s a digital SLR that works like the camera you studied in college. It has a lot of manual functions. So, I think there’s a certain nostalgia for a lot of these photographers who think “Oh, this works like a classic point-shoot Nikon” and they were psyched about that. You sort of forget photographers are camera nerds too, so they wanted to try it out.

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