Imagery owns me. Has since film succumbed to digital. No. Since even before that. I can shoot 24/7 and still have a life. So many beautiful things cross my path. I gobble them up. And show precious little of my take. Because it’s my fetish. There’s no theme. Nothing tying thousands of shots to one another. Something grabs me. I fixate. If it’s in print. I tear it out. The NYT Sunday Styles section. Or T Magazine. Or. My sugar. Oxygen. Something for me to consume in an otherwise routine day of listening to metal, talking back to it, and realizing it doesn’t care one wit, and maybe doesn’t even hear me.
Here’s a peek at what makes me wet and sticky. Note: wet and sticky is acceptable jargon.
All This By Hand
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