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Eye of the Storm

IN MY MIND’S EYE are hurried comings and goings. People in full stride under the shadow of tall buildings, the monumental immobility of which measures the figures’ relative stature and speed. One by one they set their course, converging like tributary currents into great pedestrian waves that break on other pedestrian waves at crosswalks and street corners. Unseen in this steady flow of brisk bodies and thrusting ankles is a slight, stationary figure. He watches, the bemused, faintly melancholy look on his face occasionally relieved by a broad sweet smile. Otherwise he is all attention as he goes about his unobtrusive business and clicks the shutter.

His name is Rudy Burckhardt. The city is New York. It might have been many others, though—Paris, Port-au-Prince, Naples, Montgomery. Rudy, who died this summer, was a natural cosmopolitan. Wherever he found himself he disappeared effortlessly

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