Adam Fieled (Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania, USA): "Bloodhounds"
It wouldn’t have occurred to my brain, still novice in some
respects, that a week in Quebec could deliver Mary and I
the status of ex-pats. The bloodhounds on the train sniffed
at us, I felt, with a hale and hearty sense of jouissance, as if
to say, here’s two live ones. We were at least circumspect enough
to know, and we did know, as we fished for our passports,
not to try and bring dope. We’d have to get our kicks some
other way in Montreal. This was resented by the bloodhounds,
who saw and knew just how suspect we were, from our quirky
hipster attire to our overly-clever conversations. The bloodhounds,
in fact, grunted when they realized we’d outwitted them. Mary’s
big kick, as was not unusual, was her camera, and herself. I was
raw meat— not only did I not realize we were instant ex-pats,
I did not really fathom the potency of pictures, portraits taken in
a foreign country. As the bloodhounds sashayed down the train
line, errant thoughts led them to the conclusion that the blonde,
despite her reasonable passport and lack of dope, knew only too
well how to milk this new place for maximum future-icon wattage.
So, once we settled in on Saint Catherine Street, the camera became
our constant companion, and Mary couldn’t have been more hype,
as a visual artist and person, to be backlit Montreal-style. All these
eternities later, the raw meat level of who I was then remains— by
far the most memorable shot happened in our little sub-bed & breakfast,
second-floor garret, in the middle of a morning argument about
whatever. Mary unfolded her extremely rigorous plans for us for
the day, and I objected. I wanted to spend at least one day sitting
in cafes, trying to meet some local artists. To have a good time, in
other words. I snapped the money-shot as she leaned into the window case. Done.
© Adam Fieled 2026
respects, that a week in Quebec could deliver Mary and I
the status of ex-pats. The bloodhounds on the train sniffed
at us, I felt, with a hale and hearty sense of jouissance, as if
to say, here’s two live ones. We were at least circumspect enough
to know, and we did know, as we fished for our passports,
not to try and bring dope. We’d have to get our kicks some
other way in Montreal. This was resented by the bloodhounds,
who saw and knew just how suspect we were, from our quirky
hipster attire to our overly-clever conversations. The bloodhounds,
in fact, grunted when they realized we’d outwitted them. Mary’s
big kick, as was not unusual, was her camera, and herself. I was
raw meat— not only did I not realize we were instant ex-pats,
I did not really fathom the potency of pictures, portraits taken in
a foreign country. As the bloodhounds sashayed down the train
line, errant thoughts led them to the conclusion that the blonde,
despite her reasonable passport and lack of dope, knew only too
well how to milk this new place for maximum future-icon wattage.
So, once we settled in on Saint Catherine Street, the camera became
our constant companion, and Mary couldn’t have been more hype,
as a visual artist and person, to be backlit Montreal-style. All these
eternities later, the raw meat level of who I was then remains— by
far the most memorable shot happened in our little sub-bed & breakfast,
second-floor garret, in the middle of a morning argument about
whatever. Mary unfolded her extremely rigorous plans for us for
the day, and I objected. I wanted to spend at least one day sitting
in cafes, trying to meet some local artists. To have a good time, in
other words. I snapped the money-shot as she leaned into the window case. Done.
© Adam Fieled 2026
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