Une femme mariée (Jean-Luc Godard, 1964)
Untitled (Queens, NY), 2013
archival inkjet print, 5 x 7.8 inches
from a newly completed portfolio of black and white photographs shot from September 2012 - August 2013. will be posting the complete portfolio here over the next couple of weeks.
gelatin silver prints, 24 x 20 inches each
Amy’s Bubble, 2000
Ocean With Ripple, 1991
Bird nest, 1994
Black locust, New York, 1991
Christmas Eclipse in my Father’s Hands, Sanibel, 2000
Fireflies in a jar, my sister’s back yard, Novelty, 1992
Mom at Christmas, Sanibel, 1999
for the third day in a row. I sleep very little when boy is home from Manhattan. We sleep tangled, and apparently last night the whole right side of his body fell asleep, and when he tried to move away from me I made sad whimpery noises and said “don’t go away.” I was asleep. He stayed like that for almost the whole night. I have no memory of this. I am now convinced that I need hours and hours and possibly years of therapy to figure out where my obvious and disturbing abandonment issues/nighttime confessionals are coming from. As it is, I have already been teased by my yellow shirt this morning because it makes me look like I’m either “going to have a long day as a serving wench at the renaissance fair,” or, “joining the LARPers for their Sunday gathering, sword in hand?” I think the renaissance festival and LARPing are essentially the same thing, only one has less commitment, and I’m not sure which one that would be at the moment. I’ve also been awake too long without coffee and I’m fully aware that if I don’t remedy that particular situation, we’re going to have a full grown dragon on our hands in about twenty minutes or so. There are a lot of eggs hatching everywhere, so, nothing really that we can do about the price of tea at the International Space Station. Which now that I think about it has been most unfortunately and ridiculously named. It is not international, because it is not relating to or occurring between two existing nations. Nations are on Earth. The space station is in Space. Therefore, the space station should have a slightly more appropriate name of Interstellar Space Station, as it is a space station situated between two stars. That’s not right either, is it? Whatever. It should have a different name.
from 'the first book of philosophical sexts' by ‘satanic banana’ (victoria sélavy) and ‘quantus copernicus’ (stephen michael mcdowell)
but really though, the quicker these two giants come live with me the better.
Two women gaze at heavy surf while lying on boulders on the coast of Nova Scotia, December 1961.Photograph by Volkmar Wentzel, National Geographic