Her eyes are wide and locked in place. Her mouth is fixed into a twisted open scream, as if what she's screaming at is right in front of her - except she's turned around the wrong way, her unseen back facing the burning house, a cube of pure white fire. Already all the wood has been devoured from windows, doors, and porch, so I can't understand what keeps the crumbling red brick walls consumed in flames. I want to step into the charred frame of this picture and approach the fireman, who with one arm half pushes and half supports the woman as they scramble clumsily away, his thick fireman's coat shielding them both from the heat, to tell him that it won't do any good to lead her any further from the vision of her house burning in the crackling night: it has already been seared deep into her very retina, its bright imprint flashing now as it will flash forever.
Luke Meisner