I want my photographs to tell stories. And I want stories that come from moments of life, like a still from an old movie. Movement and pain and the simple joys of being alive are frozen in time.
By now this burgeoning genre of editorial writing, in which we rationalize a shift away from print media, has become familiar enough that we can anticipate its rhetorical moves, and I don't want to waste time with that. It wasn't a difficult decision and I don't feel sentimental about the way we used to do it.
Soil and leaves filled the empty human spaces, and always the buzzing of insects. Spider silk and dust and feathers and carapaces accumulated to build soil, to make new ground for the first seedlings of oak or mulberry that would push through the glass of those stone-walled greenhouses, reaching through broken windows to the sun, pushing through warped floor for the damp and earthy root cellar.
When Don says, “Wow, she’s good,” I muster up a grudging agreement, but I can taste the bitter wilted greens of envy. I’m already lamenting my lack of musical ability; now I feel dowdy, too—my chocolate brown sweater, the lush cashmere that I love for its tactile elegance, seems drab, its rich earthy hue muddied like the path we’d mucked through in the downpour.
I used to be a young girl, only 18, who had left the East—where I had neither much sinned nor been much sinned to—but had been often tired, and often had been the girl who did not raise palms when the others raised palms, who did not flay under a spirit-hook