The Molten Hour
I did not recognize my brother until I had drawn him seventy-three times. This is not metaphor. This is the count of botanical plates I completed between the autumn of 1885 and the spring of 1887, each one a study of a different plant undergoing some form of transformation: a fern uncurling from its fiddlehead, a morning glory closing against the dusk, a seed pod splitting along its seam, a...
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