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This girl’s name is Florinda. I met her in Bologna at a 24-hour cigarette dispenser. The machine had just stolen her money. We started talking, one thing led to another, and we went for dinner the next night. I took this picture at her house, but nothing ever happened between us. I love Italian girls. They’re beautiful. They have a certain style, a way of carrying themselves that other girls don’t have.
Francesca was the daughter of my art-history lecturer, the teacher who tutored me through my dissertation. It was on the subject of photography in diaries. She’d seen my dissertation on her father’s coffee table and decided that she wanted to meet me. She was very determined. She got my number from the school and organized a meeting. We took this picture at my house. Her father still has no clue.
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