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Glass’
    the photographic art of Margot Tredennick
    Cain stares up at the banner strung across the gallery entrance.
    Beside him, T.J. is concentrating her attention on one of the huge black-and-white portraits which fill the wall opposite the entrance. The magnification has produced a curiously effective graininess in the study and he wonders if the artist considered the enlargement effect when she originally took the picture.
    Chris would know.
    T.J. has drifted towards one of the artificial divider walls thrusting out from the central wall of the gallery.
    West Africa- 2001.
    The photo that has drawn her has captured a mother and child in a moment of frozen communion, gazes locked, light reflected from the depths of eyes that remain unaware of the intrusion of the camera and the consciousness behind it. The child has a finger curled beneath the thin strap of its mother’s threadbare dress and the mother’s hand curves protectively around the girl’s naked shoulder.
    There are no smiles, but the joy in the face of the mother and the trust in the child’s eyes shine from behind the barrier of glass and transcend the dusty squalor of the drought-ravaged landscape in which they stand. Beauty in the face of hardship. The triumph of the human spirit. Themes that infuse the pictures on the wall.
    Half an hour later, standing before the winter images of street people on a wall headed New York-New Year’s Eve, 1999, she shakes her head and wipes a hand across her face . Behind her, Cain studies the image of an old man, breath pluming in the freezing air, fingerless gloves unravelling on his hands, a forgotten inhabitant of the world’s wealthiest society. The weathered face stares directly into the lens, expressionless except for the weight of years.
    â€˜Chris said he cried the first time he saw the exhibition. Actually cried. He thinks she’s a genius and that isn’t a word he throws around lightly. What do you think?’
    â€˜I think … I should meet this brother of yours.’
    She turns back to the picture and touches the glass lightly with her fingertips.
    â€˜I can see why he cried … To tell you the truth, it scares me. She can create such incredible … beauty in the most unlikely environments, but when you look at certain pictures it’s like she slips beneath the surface and touches something deep and dark in you that’s maybe better left untouched.’
    Standing behind her, he slips his arms around her waist and kisses her hair, staring into the eyes of the picture.
    â€˜Chris?’
    A voice behind him startles him and he turns to find an attractive young woman reaching out a hand.
    â€˜Libby Fielding, remember? We talked last week at the opening. I don’t know what you said to Maxine, but she’s mentioned you twice in the last couple of days – so you must have made an impression. She’s waiting for the portfolio you promised her.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Libby, is it? I’m not Chris. He’s my brother.’ He watches the moment of embarrassment and her quick recovery. ‘Twins,’ he adds superfluously. ‘He told me this was one exhibition I just had to see. And he was right. It’s a knockout.’
    Beside him, T.J. moves a little impatiently.
    â€˜I’m sorry. This is my friend T.J.’ An exchanged nod. ‘I didn’t know Chris had talked to you about his own work. He didn’t mention anything to me.’
    The young woman smiles.
    â€˜Perhaps he was waiting to gauge the reaction.’ A pause. She looks at the picture on the wall, as if ordering her words. He senses that she is not someone who allows for the possibility of an unguarded word, but there is something that she wants to say. ‘He can certainly talk the talk. Maxine’s been in the business since before I was born and she can smell a phoney at a hundred paces, but he managed to impress her – and without showing