Life's fucking depressive. The world's depressive. Photography's often depressive*, too - but in a good way. * it's also a preserverant for memories - a time-stopper, moment-keeper, (barrel rider), a thief (but it claims nothing)
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after sundown streets belong to the whiskered who walk them with grace perched, watch from above rule from their comfy seats, from behind the window once the sun’s down you’re an intruder
an inferior being just as you always are but who would sacrifice a nap in the sun Photos from my mini-series, When a Woman Descends the Escalator. 2019. (Five points if you know the film I borrowed the title idea from - let me know in the comments.) It truly felt like photographing another world; and being invisible - but for one shot, where I felt seen, although it's hardly possible. By now, it feels as if I had photographed another world in a previous life. Just think of all the unrestricted family rides in the pre-lockdown world. And of all the ones you've missed since. No fun, eh. Oh, and that's my memory of the curious case when someone from the other side peeked my way:
(he wasn't my object, either, you see; he wasn't a woman) |
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