(of the curious type)
Mostly art + bits and pieces of my own work and notes
(of the curious type)
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michelleleewallace:

Results from experimental film roll, there wasn’t much to work with!
((Don’t go from 3200 ISO film to 160 without thinking too much)) 
michelleleewallace:

Results from experimental film roll, there wasn’t much to work with!
((Don’t go from 3200 ISO film to 160 without thinking too much)) 
michelleleewallace:

Results from experimental film roll, there wasn’t much to work with!
((Don’t go from 3200 ISO film to 160 without thinking too much)) 
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Would like to check out this book!  Two-Frame Films by Luke Fowler
Would like to check out this book!  Two-Frame Films by Luke Fowler
Would like to check out this book!  Two-Frame Films by Luke Fowler
Would like to check out this book!  Two-Frame Films by Luke Fowler
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Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Spent some time last night with Léonie Hampton’s book In the Shadow of Things.  What a lovely surprise!
Q&A with Matthew Robinson, Student Curator of This after That
Paris Review – A Conversation About Mark Cohen’s “Dark Knees”, Jason Fulford And Leanne Shapton
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lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
lostinpublications:

The house is quiet. They have gone to bed, leaving me alone, and the electric timer has just switched off the living-room lights. It feels like the house has finally turned on its side to fall asleep. Years ago I would have gone through my mother’s purse for one of her cigarettes and smoked in the dark. It was a magical time that the house was mine.
Tonight, however, I am restless. I sit at the dining-room table; rummage through the refrigerator. What am I looking for?
All day long I’ve been scavenging, poking around in rooms and closets, peering at their things, studying them. I arrange my rolls of exposed film into long rows and count and recount them as if they were lost. There are twenty-eight.
What drives me to continue this work is difficult to name. It has more to do with love than with sociology, with being a subject in the drama rather than a witness. And in the odd and jumbled process of working everything shifts; the boundaries blur, my distance slips, the arrogance and illusion of immunity falters. I wake up in the middle of the night, stunned and anguished. These are my parents. From that simple fact, everything follows. I realize that beyond the rolls of film and the few good pictures, the demands of my project and my confusion about its meaning, is the wish to take photography literally. To stop time. I want my parents to live forever.
Larry Sultan: An excerpt from Chapter One of Pictures From Home, 1992
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Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
Found Vivitar 5MP camera photos
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"Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings."
Ralph Waldo Emerson (via likeafieldmouse)
Lorna Simpson at the BALTIC | Port Magazine - Part 1
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reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
reckon:

Ahndraya Parlato

http://www.ahndrayaparlato.com/info.html
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Johan van der Keuken – Quatorze Juillet
beautiful book
Johan van der Keuken – Quatorze Juillet
beautiful book
Johan van der Keuken – Quatorze Juillet
beautiful book
Johan van der Keuken – Quatorze Juillet
beautiful book
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"You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?"
Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay” (via bostonpoetryslam)