Louis Stettner American, 7/11/1922–13/10/2016

A young sailor in dress blues sits at a lunch counter, and the photograph reaches him down a narrow slot: a doorway with pale jambs pressing in from both sides, and behind that the shop window. He is seen from the back, white cap on, wide collar with its white stripes, black neckerchief hanging. One leg is crossed over the other and a polished shoe hangs in the air. Stencilled on the glass, PIZZA. Above him a glass juice dispenser promises orange juice squeezed to your order. A cut-out hot dog in a bun hangs beside it, and there is a metal bowl of rolls on the counter.

The frame within the frame does all the work. Stettner has not stepped inside; he has photographed from the street through two openings, and each one narrows the world a little further until what is left is one lit cell with one man in it. The signs, the dispenser, the bowl and the bottles are all pressed into the same shallow depth, so the sailor sits inside an advertisement rather than a room.

He has his back to every bit of it. In 1951 a sailor in Times Square was a figure the whole country had opinions about, and this one is eating alone with his shoulders rounded, giving the camera nothing at all. Everything around him is shouting. He is having lunch. The photograph is very careful not to make more of him than that, which is why it still works.