In March of 2013, I did just that, sitting in the living room of Eggleston's Memphis apartment, flipping through all three volumes of his series Chromes, which he handed me before carefully positioning a construction lamp directly over my head so I could see the images under the whitest, brightest light possible. David Lynch's Mulholland Drive played in the background, and Bill, as he had introduced himself to me a day earlier, spoke poetically of Lynch's brilliance, pausing occasionally to light a cigarette or take a sip of his drink. In his lilting Southern accent, he said how much he admired the surreal visuals of Lynch's films, his attention to color and composition, his ability to take narrative risks and huge conceptual leaps, his aesthetic prowess. After a few glasses of bourbon and under the nearly unbearable heat of a high watt utility light, I couldn't help but notice the parallels. And while Eggleston rarely describes his own work in such terms, it certainly hasn't stopped the rest of us from trying.