"Deedle what?"

"Deedle Stephens"

"No, what is it?"

"I'm not sure," I confessed "But it's right up the road and around the corner in what I think you will agree is the ugliest building in the city"

"Sounds interesting, why not"

So we pressed on towards The Deedle Stephens Gallery.

Now please allow me to elaborate. When I said the building was ugly I meant it with all seriousness. I use to rent a room on the same block and pass by this poor excuse for a dwelling daily. The windows were no longer opaque from the years of soot. The same soot that turned the facade from what I am guessing was once joyful mint green to a now putrid color that could best be described as a drunkard's sickness. It was small and covered with overgrown hedges that never had any leaves, even in the spring and summer. Then again maybe they weren't hedges any longer ... maybe they were just piles of sticks. There was no arguing that this place was suffering from some serious neglect. Get the picture ... it was a real piece of shit!

Over the years I never saw anyone enter or leave and would have assumed the place condemned if it weren't for the continued upkeep of the shiny bronze sign that hung above the dilapidated doors, that read "The Deedle Stephens Gallery".

"Well here it is." I proudly announced at the steps.

Denise hesitated and said; "This does not look interesting."

I had to disagree; this place was definitely interesting.

"Sure it does" I reassured her.

"Isn't there something else we can do?"

As we stood on the walk and debated our next move my interest grew even stronger. In fact it seemed to grow in direct proportion to my growing disinterest in Denise. Wasn't it her desire for newness that brought us to the steps of this monstrosity?

"What is it you would like to do?" I asked ...and waited.

After what I could tell was a legitimate attempt at a decision she replied "I don't know."

Of course she didn't, they never do.

"Then it's settled, let's go in"

She gave me a defeated nod and we walked up the steps.

On the doors windowpane was a small sign that read "Visitors Welcome Please Come In" it appeared to receive the same amount of upkeep as the marquee over the door.

This time it was I who hesitated. Then I grabbed the knob and casually strolled in as if it were my own home.

"Have a look around please." was heard immediately in a craggy voice that startled me.

Turning I saw an old slender woman with long gray hair sitting on a stool to the side just out of the swing of the door. After her greeting she immediately returned to her magazine and no longer acknowledged our presence.

"Thank you" I whispered.

The aphorism "Never judge a book by its cover" certainly applied here. The walls and ceiling were bright white and glowed with the perfect intensity of fluorescent lighting. It was spotless almost hospital like. It also had a sense of spaciousness that could never have been imagined from the outside. And evenly spaced, at eye level through out the gallery were colorful ...paintings?

"Are those your paintings?" Denise questioned

"No, no those are photographs and they are my husbands, please have a look."

We continued into the gallery and I could see the reason for Denise's mistake and mine.

"You know," I whispered "they looked like paintings to me also."

As we moved closer and examined each individually I realized they were photographs, but they were all distorted and blurred. They looked like they were taken from a moving car or by one of those shaky alcoholic bums you see on the street.

"Someone needs to get this guy a tripod" I mused

"Shhh ...Daniel please show some respect."

Did she just shhh my joke?

"A child could take pictures like that." I retorted as if I was some authority on the topic of photography "Don't get me wrong a lot of what I see is aesthetically pleasing, but why are they all blurry, what's the idea, what's he trying to convey?"

"I'm not sure, maybe he just likes blurry pictures and I see nothing wrong with that ... he's an artist" Denise replied.

"Artist?" I snickered. "What does and does not qualify as art has been debated for centuries and last I heard the juries still out." She was right of course, but I felt like being difficult. "Denise I can appreciate experimentation with a subject or medium, but out of the hundreds of photos here not one is recognizable they all look the same ...I mean what if a writer started every paragraph of every story with the same sentence, would that still be art?"

Denise turned silent and walked away to the other side of the gallery.

Usually I would have stared at her ass as she left, but one of the photographs caught my eye. It was just as blurred as the others, but I was certain I could see an image through the mess. Yes a little girl ... standing waist high in purple flowers. The colors were very pleasing, but the longer I looked the more confused my mind grew. I could tell it was a picture of a little girl, but my vision kept flashing back and forth between the image and blurry composition. I could feel the beginning of a headache and I couldn't help but think the picture would have been so much better if I could just focus and see her clearly. How could the photographer not agree? If frustration was what he was trying to convey he certainly succeeded.

"That one there is my granddaughter, it was my husband's favorite" the old woman suddenly announced over my shoulder startling me again.

"Was" I replied?