I’m entertaining the idea of doing a series of images informed by vignettes from my favorite literature. This is the first of them, based on Hemmingway’s Dangerous summer.
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the current highlight of my photographic career, shooting John Larroquette holding a plastic mallard
shooting Gila and Choya at the same time was tantamount to walking into the Louvre, pulling the Mona Lisa off the wall, and smashing it over my head, then wandering around trapped in the picture frame bleeding all over the marble parquet, leering beatifically. It was hot
One from a promo shoot for Salvage clothing, featuring Aaron, the drummer from Prong. The remainder of the images are top secret for now, as they depict unreleased scenes of carnal t-shirt chaopathy that cannot see the light of day. I.E. no one’s seen the designs, and yes, thats a made up word. For those of you who care deeply, I also shot the cover art for Prongs most recent CD, which I don’t have yet….hopefully its really disgustingly goodlooking, like the drummer Aaron.
the 2 faces of my great sage and friend Erin, and her Janus faced anti-hipster, Weston, who is so cool, he had to face away from the camera lest I became over infatuated with his oh so bloggable face. I think if they have a boy baby together, he’d look just like the infant version of keifer sutherland. My camera and I will bear witness should this singularity occur.
kate, keep your boobs to yourself, you showoff. Albeit a wonderful model and designer, Kate cannot help but flaunt her chesty bits, insisting to all and sundry that they admit to her boob supremacy and kowtow before them. If I had a pound sterling for every time she mentioned them things, what with the currency exchange and US interest rates at an all time low, I have, like, 4 dollars.
I spend the vastness of this first day in the city of earlier dreams exploring the Vatican basilica. The roads have no lines painted on their slick surface and the vehicles plunge like serpents around each other and their pedestrian prey. I hope that I’m of the cricket variety despite being mostly one-legged, but I don’t plan to stay still long enough to find out. The first thrill of the obelisk is ground somewhat by scaffolding and great swathes of humanity baking in the sultry air. But the interior is something built for a dragons conceit, cavernous arches and scooped halls shot through with mosaic and gold, sunlight lancing in from immense windows carved high into the walls. But still the feeling that all of it is built as a vessel, something to fill. I wish I could enjoy this alone and empty. I retreat up to the cupola, threading my way slowly from the bowels up into the bright.
we awoke to the inevitability of sam a-cooking, make that much more intense by the fact that the three of us are attempting to start a fire American Indian style, by excitably grinding our legs together. Lovely lunch with mr Von bock, a great friend from central American ages past, chatting on largely anecdotally about the past 3 years we’d not seen one another. I have been a somewhat healthy eater during this trip – it seemed like germany with it’s less than stellar sausage, soda shops and ultrapasturized milk that needed not the crutch of refrigeration – was a perfect opportunity. I fall off the wagon spectacularly into the waiting arms of a bk double bacon burger that sits in my stomach like a renunciant Buddha for the remaider of Berlin. We get a budget 8 euro train ticket back to hamburg that extends the usual 90 minute trip to just over 5 hours of scenic darkness, arriving rainsodden and just minutes late for the last tube. 15 euros flayed from our irregilious posteriors and we arrive at the aparment for a late night, heavily be-pillowed game of who’s on my face?
