Monday, November 14, 2011


He paints tears down cheeks, a head resting on a hand. A cut acrylic in black and grey, sharp corners on bars, stiff drinks of loneliness. It is searching the whole world to find the most brutal sadness, hiding in a dark corner and shining a light on the guy forgotten.

She writes stories of suffering in long form performing a murder in the most merciful of ways. A tale weaved so tightly the unraveling becomes a welcome relief. We pity her characters and find solace in how foreign they seem. I don't do that, we say. Poor person, we think, how horrid.

I sit on an edge of gold and watch as white and khaki pose. This is where, this is how, this is what we should be. The child notices me, and I smile, pull the camera up and shoot as he nears. He studies the lens as if he will discover how it works, and I fall completely in love.

On a Saturday morning in November it didn't matter if the lighting was right or people had their hands placed correctly or if the background was too cluttered. It became about the curiosity of that kid and the opportunity I had to witness it.


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