‘If photography transcends language, then the self-portrait must be its most sacred utterance, and, perhaps, the hotel room can be its chapel for the night.’ — I wrote about the poetics of place & self-portraiture
I like looking up songs on YouTube lately. People often leave their own little stories of love & loss in the comments. Underneath the Paris, Texas soundtrack is this one – an echo of a slide guitar & of time passing 🤍
on a forgotten 35mm roll at the bottom of a bag and after dozens of trips through x-rays machines around the world, this little greek flower emerges from the silver halide emulsion – light-streaked, dense with grain & all the more precious for it
I like looking up songs on YouTube lately. People often leave their own little stories of love & loss in the comments. Underneath the Paris, Texas soundtrack is this one – an echo of a slide guitar & of time passing 🤍
Voice like a cathedral. Lyrics like a midnight walk in the rain. His songs took you by your hand through love & loss and never let you go again. Brel & Bowie & bright beauty in the beast of darkness. Thanks for saving my heart,
#ScottWalker
, travel on well x
letter from John Cage to Merce Cunningham, 22 July 1944
‘pardon the intrusion: but when in september will you be back? i would like to measure my breath in relation to the air between us.’
(I revisit this moment in my head almost every day, soften its corners, blur its borders, stretch its edges until I can dip into the frame again. I trace the outline of my longing as if it allows itself to be contained, but when I look up, only an endless blue surrounds me.)
‘Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh. […] I revere that.’
– from Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing