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How do you book your place in an August Sander photograph? Well, it helps to be German, and to have lived in the first half of the twentieth century. You should be a farmer, perhaps, with a rutted face and a wrinkled coat, heading off to church along a dirt road in the Westerwald, the region outside Cologne, sometime around 1925. That is how Sander sees you, and that is how he wants you to remain: full length in the frame, from the hazy air above your top hat to the shine on your toe caps. He likes the way you cock your hand against your hip, like the handle of a cup; neither fey nor jaunty, but as though you were propping yourself up. After all, he has already noticed the ...