mommy, what is language?

still from, 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her, Godard 1967

getting started on a new adventure slash project. getting excited… stay tuned, etc.

a lonely savage

“lonely savage” : kent & park : east williamsburg : 2012

is graffiti dead? how many pratt students have photographed this same scene? my favorite graffiti in all of brklyn, that i know of. i do not entirely understand the desire to post such a (or any) sentiment in spray-paint scrawl, but then i feel the same way about tattoos. secret sentiments made public; to share with us all. regardless: good work.

thank you anonymous: yr movement moves me.

a trip to the beach

a trip to jacob riis beach last weekend. the cool thing about directing is you get to be bossy. but i was just damn rude. sorry angela.

i am yr president…

are you alone tonite? are you normal tonite? we are all kennedys.

say hello to my little friend

bird. pulaski bridge, brklyn--> queenz, 2012

I am not a sculptor. I don’t really get objects in their finalized object existence. I don’t buy that they, (read: anything – an artwork, a pencil, a sofa) is “done” – that further transformations wouldn’t make better, or if not, make them the way they are just supposed to be. It’s sorta a combination of creative impulse & acceptance of entropy. I only seem to “get” them re-represented, as in their own absence. Or, at times, their relationship to a space & the other objects around.

That being said, I love this bird-object I made this week. S/he keeps me company as I roll around the East Coast. Originally, a gift from a friend, this bird – I thought wood, turned out to be porcelain & tragically lost a tail in a freak gesticulation. (I’m sure the point I was making was really important. Ask Angela S. Beallor, she was witness.) As the bird took the hit, it slammed against the rear view & the tail went flying – out the driver side window. Lost to the mean Brklyn streets. Whoops. A subsequent trip to Philly & with the help of the chicken Mitten loving members of West Philly’s Pocket Farm, I returned to my studio & devised this (re)newed life. A song bird – chicken hybrid, both real & representational – which means fake, I think.

Things have been lost & found a great deal this week, an experience I am not accustomed to. After the burglary, I expected never to see this screen again or use the camera responsible for these images. I feel strangely more haunted and lonely than if these things had stayed gone. The idea of having to solve the “I have no lap top” problem felt more comfortable than this, “I have a lap top, it was taken from me but now it is back.” Foreign and mixed emotions. Unlike the finality of a form, the finality of loss? Yea, that I understand. But my inexperience does make the expansive feeling of gratitude that much more intense. You should take a hit off this. Breath deeply.

Good thing the detectives haven’t recovered my jewelry & sentimental objects box or my old DV camera. Got to get my loss-rocks off some how. And better it be the worthless meaningful things, than these expensive creative devices. Yes, better to let go the worthless: emotions, memories, meanings’ reminders – to fully embrace the reality of capital & the illusion of invisible things like relationships or meaning. The truth, the hard fact of form: extant, exist and the irrelevancies of its presence, absence, placement or context…

prospect heights, sun lights, 2012

Early Buds & Hardwood Floors. Hudson, New York 2012.

pretty much how i feel about every book, ever

Geoff Dyer, The Ongoing Moment. Dedication Page.