I was looking over Eggleston’s “Hasselblad Award” book of color photographs with a painter friend. I always sought his opinions about art but felt he held back a little with his regard to photography. He used photos, including his own as reference material when he needed them. I didn’t voice an opinion that might prejudice his reaction to the book. As he thumbed through the pictures he said: “But, where does he go from here?” Coming from a painter I held in high regard, the comment – more of a musing – was insightful. Where does a photograph go from there? I think the view of photographic finality pervades art. Other conversations with artist friends came to mind. Photos were, for them, commonly felt as departure points for the art to begin. Other media do not have the burden of seeming to be a true record of what things really looked like at that moment. We know that to be a myth, (don’t we?) yet we still feel it in a photograph’s unshakable record of the moment mystique. At what point are you done with a picture? Or, at what point are pictures done?