they might wear to church. One couple came with their five-year-old daughter. I first saw the child from the back, straight blond hair and a bright pink sweatshirt. Her father held her in his arms while they waited in one of the healing lines. She was clapping her hands over her head and moving her body to an upbeat country-western song about God. I kept watching because her movements were so delightful. Eventually she turned around to face me. I saw then that she had Down’s Syndrome, and I knew why her parents were standing in the healing line.

I started for the exit. I’d had enough. I was angry at the parents for being so foolish as to think the Hunters could heal their child. I was angry at the Hunters because what they were doing was such a gross exploitation of these people’s situation. I made my way through the crowd and was halfway to the door when one of the young men responsible for guarding the stage area approached me and said he’d been wanting to talk to me all evening. He asked me my name, and I told him. He’d been watching me, he said, and could tell I was Christian. “You’re wrong,” I said, “I’m Jewish” (although I’m not). I thought that would get rid of him, but he only came back with some story about the Jew being the olive and the Christian being the root, or vice-versa. I stood there and stared at him. He was hitting on me. Unbelievable. “Well,” I said, “I have to go now.” And he said, “Shalom, Dianne.”

Ben Benschneider of The Seattle Times photographed the same event for the newspaper. While I was on the stage making my panoramic view of the crowd I saw him down on the floor photographing “tight.” I wondered what the hell he was doing down there. The “picture” was from up here on the stage. He might well have wondered what I was doing on the stage. There were good reasons why we were standing in different places, making different photographs: our organizational commitments were different, we were making our photographs for different purposes, and our aesthetics were different.