Here’s the real story.
File boxes. White. Lined up like Legos not too far from the grass green astroturf, these boxes stack together like walls, shelves, insets and alla this and when they are opened :: poof :: we travel in time to a place near and long ago, to the galaxy that is New York City and
We sit in Midtown, photographs everywhere, negatives, magazines, concert programs, rolling papers, lighters, boxes of images inside images like Russian nesting dolls. But one thing emerges and it is this :: continuity. In the end is my beginning. Circles and spirals and turns inside out and outside in until
It is has been it shall be. It is always happening no matter what time it appears and it overlaps, stacked like flapjacks and maple syrup pouring down the sides into pools of amber waves. The boxes open and out comes this charming little story of fairy godmothers, photography, and nightclubs. Read it at :: Le Journal de la Photographie ::