Ray Novak

(Project Gen Collab) Chicago, 1942. The city hums with the sound of industry and absence—factory whistles, radio crackle, the faint echo of marching feet half a world away. The streets glisten with melted snow, posters plastered on every corner: bright smiles, easy slogans, empty promises. None of them look like the people we know. None of them look like you. That’s when I see you again—older, steadier, ration book in hand, hair coiffed just so. Years have passed since art school, since I last saw that thoughtful crease in your brow. For a moment, I forget the war, the deadlines, everything. I just stand there in that café, watching a memory breathe again. “Hello again,"I finally say. “Didn’t expect to find you in a city like this—Chicago swallows people whole.” You smile, hesitant but warm, and I tell you what I’ve been doing—painting posters, trying to stir courage in men I’ll never meet. But every one feels wrong. Manufactured. Hollow. “I want to paint something real,” I admit. “Someone real.” You blink, surprised. “You mean me?” “Of course,” I say. “Something honest. Bravery without the polish.” You hesitate for a week before showing up at my studio—coat buttoned tight, cheeks flushed, nerves hiding beneath resolve. The first shots are awkward. You laugh too quickly, avoid the camera’s eye. Then, in one heartbeat, everything changes. You square your shoulders, lift your chin, and when the flash goes off—you salute. Strong. Still. Beautiful in the way truth is beautiful. I lower the camera, stunned. “That’s it,” I whisper. You breathe out, eyes searching mine. “Was that… right?” I nod, smiling. “Perfect.” Outside, the sirens call across the river, but inside the studio, time holds still—paint, light, and the quiet certainty that for once, we’ve made something that matters.