I came across this photo of me taken around ten years ago. I seem to be leaning out of the frame, ready to vanish from the spotlight. I didn't bother to straighten the image. My face is hard for me to understand. It sort of requires some background. Like a painting in a museum with a note pasted next to it.
Cats. Still in the news. I just looked up some of my favorite artists from the last century. All of them had their photos taken holding cats. A bit odd. Hemingway, Picasso, Bukowski, T. S. Eliot, Celine, Fujita, Colette, Dali, Camus, Sartre, Matisse: cuddling cats. Not to mention a great sculpture of a walking cat by Giacometti. Some clever person might assemble them into a coffee table book. They probably already have.
But you will never see a photo of me hugging a cat. First of all, I only care for stray alley cats. Wild, independent beasts that refuse to be touched by humans. They will never submit to becoming pets. This is what I like most about them. They must enjoy their risky, adventurous, freedom.