The image above is the work of Mitko Pavlov, a street photographer in Bulgaria. Found on Google, it was offered as a writing prompt by my friend Sharon Reynolds.  

Sharon and I belong to a writing critique group, a whimsical, perceptive bunch of four women who have been together about twenty-five years now. Watching us at the coffee house where we meet, you might sometimes think we’re just playing or joking, but we work hard. We keep the faith with each other’s writing projects and respond with imagination, also skepticism, though all suggestions are voiced with courtesy, and curiosity. 

Some of our sessions feature Sharon’s prompts, which can be verbal or image-based; in response we write silently for twenty to twenty-five minutes, then share our work. This time, however, Sharon had sent out the photograph beforehand so we wrote at home, then read the pieces out loud when we met.  As always, even when they seem merely funny or frivolous, these prompts unleash invention and dust out our minds. 

And sometimes they offer something more. For they remind me, that in some sense, every photograph or image, no matter who has taken it, can act on me as a prompt. Images take me along for the ride.  

I offer this piece as thanks to Sharon, for so many wonderful prompts over the years and also I thank Sue and Mary, the other members of the group, for their friendship and help.  

And of course, kudos to Mitko Pavlov for his photograph, and a vast tribute to Cindy Sherman.  

I’m strolling in the gallery district when I see them: a couple standing outside a display window where a single photo holds pride of place. It’s clear that the two of them have been drawn into the image, also that each holds a strong opinion.  

 Stylishly dressed, Bloomingdales and Nieman Marcus bags over her arm, the woman points at the window and taps her foot unconsciously on the pavement. “Oh, I recognize her!” 

Her stocky companion looks baffled. “What do you mean, “recognize” her? There’s no face to know!” He folds his arms across his chest and grimaces, still focusing on the photograph.  

“Don’t you know? You’ve seen her work many times!” In an impatient tone. 

“No. In fact, I don’t see why the picture is significant at all, I mean it’s just of an old lady on a bus—what’s the big deal?” 

His companion steps closer, gesturing with her hands. “Oh, but it’s so symbolic! That elderly woman, so alone, she could be on the way to the cemetery for a funeral and really she’s close to death herself . . .  the image is so symbolic of her mortality, the bus is bearing her along like a hearse . . . or maybe it’s something else, like she’s finally visiting a grandchild she hasn’t seen in two years because of Covid and she’s worried the kid won’t recognize her!” 

“Oh, come on! I don’t get all that. I mean, it’s so ordinary, it’s just an old woman riding a bus. You see it all the time . . . though I gotta admit, those seats around her sorta resemble wheelchairs. . . she looks lonely, clutching that pole. . . and that ropey skin on her arm is really kinda weird.” Edging away from the gallery window, he tightens the belt of his Ralph Lauren trench coat.  

“But don’t you see? That’s Cindy Sherman!”  

“Cindy who?”  

“Cindy Sherman, she’s that artist, that photographer I mean, who takes pictures of herself every time! She’s always dressed as someone else, always posing.” Involuntarily, the speaker snaps her fingers.  

“Cindy Sherman?” He thinks a moment. “Oh, yeah . .  . Didn’t we see her stuff at MOMA once? But she was all dolled up then, sexy, provocative, even.” He looks relieved to have remembered.  

“Yup, that’s her.”  

The fellow shifts his feet, his voice louder now. “But, come on! How do you know it’s by her and of her? It’s nothing like that other one! And what’s more, she’s not even looking at you.” 

Putting her hand on his arm, the woman speaks condescendingly. “Well, maybe this is Sherman’s latest phase. She’s always reinventing herself. She did the sex thing, and the occupations thing, the Hollywood thing—and now she’s into age-ing! . . or maybe she’s taken on another focus now, I mean, maybe she’s just letting her body speak.”  

“Well, I don’t see why anybody’s supposed to care. I don’t like it. Why would you buy that picture anyway? I mean, when you could have, oh, a Steichen or an Irving Penn or an Avedon?” 

“But it’s a Cindy Sherman! And she’s famous, I mean one of her pictures went for something like two and a half million! To a major collector . . .  or was it one of the museums? I’ve forgotten.”  

They move on, still arguing.  

Other people walk by. Some notice the photograph, others ignore it. Hours pass, daylight wanes. The gallery door gets locked, a bolt clunks in place. Now a spotlight shines on the photograph.  

A bus stops at the corner, brakes hissing. People get off.  One of them, a stooped little elderly woman wearing a white hat, waves to the driver, then shuffles down the sidewalk and turns in at an apartment doorway, tote bag in hand. Darkness falls.  

The woman in the photograph keeps riding. The bus keeps going.