There are photographs that speak to you in a way. Maybe you’re not sure where the recognition comes from, but it is overwhelmingly present. There is a sense of an emotion…or something calling you to image. For myself, I know of two such photos.
One is the photo of a man in all black, bald and sleaze oozes through the relaxed grin on his face as he reclines. He is on the left side of a red couch. An albino python snakes around the back of the couch, a brilliant streak of yellow. On the right side there is a girl in a red velvet dress, flat girl’s chest pushed forward, black hair across her small shoulders, head held up high; it’s a haughty expression, defiance, intense, sexual. The man and the girl on the couch, the room is royal blue. It’s utterly perverse. It’s utterly intriguing.
The other photo is a blonde young woman in a pale blue shirt, her hair in curlers. She is looking directly at the camera, you are her focus. She sits on a couch, a brown, ordinary couch. There are people all around her, half naked, turned in one direction or another from the camera. There is a tangle of naked limbs just outside the room outside on the patio and two men in black. One has a camera and the other a boom mic. They lean in closely. The young woman doesn’t see anything around her. She sees you. Her eyes are longing…slightly scared. The title says i
t’s her first film. It’s incredibly sad. Incredibly beautiful.
Photos of photos are windows into the past. It’s like watching those movies where one scene transposes itself on top of the other the main subject consequently dragged into a different time, different place, in an effortless, smooth transition. Walking through the room, eyes wide in curiosity examining each person, each object, as they continue in their actions unaware of a new presence.
Seeing something in a different light, the barred windows of Alcatraz, cathedral windows, the Church of Tourism, an old story coming to mind about pornography theaters, “Churches of Desire”
A torn screen becomes the pinnacle of a photographer’s career, and you’re not sure why, but somehow you agree, even in your ignorance.
A friend’s quick snapshot an ode to advertising, London, angle, composition and blur.
And a bird flickering in at the perfect moment, between sun and subject, a memory, one single piece of an entire series. In the desert, in a suit, and there’s a bird. It’s a woman by the way. In another of the series you can see her broad face laughing hear the echo of the laugh spreading out across the cracked dirt. Stereotypical, but unique. Found the photographer somewhere in Tubac, Arizona, a little artist town in a small shop where the lady watched as you pulled back each photograph one after the other. Until the one with the blue room. The one with the man, the snake, and the girl. You wanted it. You had to h
ave it in all its strangeness amidst touristy trinkets and Native American jewelry. Not a find, not something you would want to show off, but something to have. Have completely in its little black metal frame as the woman watched you. It was fifty dollars.
One is the photo of a man in all black, bald and sleaze oozes through the relaxed grin on his face as he reclines. He is on the left side of a red couch. An albino python snakes around the back of the couch, a brilliant streak of yellow. On the right side there is a girl in a red velvet dress, flat girl’s chest pushed forward, black hair across her small shoulders, head held up high; it’s a haughty expression, defiance, intense, sexual. The man and the girl on the couch, the room is royal blue. It’s utterly perverse. It’s utterly intriguing.
The other photo is a blonde young woman in a pale blue shirt, her hair in curlers. She is looking directly at the camera, you are her focus. She sits on a couch, a brown, ordinary couch. There are people all around her, half naked, turned in one direction or another from the camera. There is a tangle of naked limbs just outside the room outside on the patio and two men in black. One has a camera and the other a boom mic. They lean in closely. The young woman doesn’t see anything around her. She sees you. Her eyes are longing…slightly scared. The title says i
t’s her first film. It’s incredibly sad. Incredibly beautiful.Photos of photos are windows into the past. It’s like watching those movies where one scene transposes itself on top of the other the main subject consequently dragged into a different time, different place, in an effortless, smooth transition. Walking through the room, eyes wide in curiosity examining each person, each object, as they continue in their actions unaware of a new presence.
Seeing something in a different light, the barred windows of Alcatraz, cathedral windows, the Church of Tourism, an old story coming to mind about pornography theaters, “Churches of Desire”
A torn screen becomes the pinnacle of a photographer’s career, and you’re not sure why, but somehow you agree, even in your ignorance.
A friend’s quick snapshot an ode to advertising, London, angle, composition and blur.
And a bird flickering in at the perfect moment, between sun and subject, a memory, one single piece of an entire series. In the desert, in a suit, and there’s a bird. It’s a woman by the way. In another of the series you can see her broad face laughing hear the echo of the laugh spreading out across the cracked dirt. Stereotypical, but unique. Found the photographer somewhere in Tubac, Arizona, a little artist town in a small shop where the lady watched as you pulled back each photograph one after the other. Until the one with the blue room. The one with the man, the snake, and the girl. You wanted it. You had to h
ave it in all its strangeness amidst touristy trinkets and Native American jewelry. Not a find, not something you would want to show off, but something to have. Have completely in its little black metal frame as the woman watched you. It was fifty dollars. And you didn’t have any money.
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