Who took the pictures, though? Him or her? I think both people, actually, and, if it’s not too simplistic to think, let alone say, I think he enjoyed looking at her. We see him and her both in the shots recorded on Polaroid, that medium of immediate sadness or gratification. I think April loved Polaroids as much as I do, and maybe for the same reason: we are both fascinated by the immediacy of them, of the image that reveals who you are, just moments after you’ve become it for the camera and in your mind’s eye. Polaroids also give you a chance to get it right—to get your self-image right, in better light or a better dress, without too much technical haggling with the camera. A Polaroid lets you know how your lighting is doing right away, and how to fix it or leave it alone. One gets the sense, looking at April’s beautifully composed photographs, not only that she worked hard to get it all right photographically but that she wanted to tell a story. Her “sexiness” and coyness and all of that seem fairly conventional to me, based perhaps on gentlemen’s magazines. But there were not that many other references for her to go by, and, after all, April was born a man. Did he have certain needs, such as loving a woman like April and cherishing her while having her live forever in an image? Your guess is as good as mine.