everyone you come in contact with needs something from you.
they don’t always know what it is,
but they know you have something for them.
the balance occurs when you learn to embrace
that which will move you forward
those who will genuinely love you
and inevitably to learn to say NO.
Month: May 2003
scent of Jungian anal(ysis)
thank all the gods and goddesses and collective unconscious that i am done done done with that 14-page monster i just gave birth to.
holy fucking archetypes, Batman!
well — it’s all right and the world is a fine place ‘cuz boy/girl-howdy do i have some ideas for photos.
and now … sleep on it.
holding pattern
your call is very important to me
i’ll be with you shortly
please continue to hold
and i will answer you
in the order received
i appreciate your patience.
please answer,
i hate queues.
fizzle-pop
passions just trying to keep up with pursuits, and it gets so tiring, to be constantly switched on and open, alive like tripwire. looking for that vision of loveliness, that perfect lover, that not so dead-end thankless employment, the perfect shot.
fizzzzzzzzle-pop.
i watched John Malkovich on Charlie Rose tonite and he was talking about his directorial debut some interesting passionate socio-political artistic hopeful masterpiece and he said something about cinema that can also relate to art, fashion, media, photography:
“the image is a currency widely overused.”
i can relate . . . abso-ipso-facto-fucking-lutley.
it can’t all be beautiful, crystal clear. we cannot be so entirely self-satisfying, it’s not all about the collection and obsession with an image (or many). the faces/pieces that we wish to capture and parade ourselves as.
soon enough, it will all be spent . . . and you may reach the end of production and end up with: Excretera: more of the same old shit. one of them is bound to disappoint someone. and it may fizzle-pop in shameless embarassment. or it may continue until it burns into fodder for dreams. milky, watery snapshots of some previous life.
i try to keep this is in mind as i wallow in my own ‘artistic stench’ as it were, tangling through numbers, wrapping my head around financial happenstances while somewhere else some fuck-off ‘brilliant’ tries to figure out how to propel paint sideways, 80mph, from his naked wang, onto canvas, bleaches his hair, wears tin-foil jockstraps and claims previous institutionalization for charm and effect and gets a gallery show. finger-snaps all around my pretties.
experience is your goddamned portfolio,
not the pictures of it.