My grandfather’s eyes are a little bit easier for me to read, I lived with him and we lived through each other, in a way, for the strongest periods of my childhood. In his eyes I can see the Marxist, worker’s utopia he’d worked for all his life recede from the possibility of ever happening in his lifetime - like Jack's memory of his father's eyes? -, I can see his ironic resignation to living in his anger at the way capital mediates human relations and his resignation to living the rest of his life in The Bronx, on the outskirts off the heart of the forces he’d been disgusted by for his whole life. I don’t see the bitterness of the —— but just of a comfortable home of anger and humor he’d made, and profitable habits he’d built, in his life, and expected death, in perpetual exile. Well he’d gotten out of Samarkand, the city of his birth and the city of his hated memory of underdevelopment. The American flag (the photographer gave me as a prop?) must have made him laugh, and there’s a serenity and joy in his comfortable eyes of anger.