A lot of these photos are about ugliness that produces beauty; I realized the plant outside the restaurant named happy in Italian had a grim backstory. That pretty out door table is a product of the horrific virus that ruthlessly continues to spread and kill.
All the photos are about that. The old stove from the 20s that I grew up with is a reminder of the change from happy innocent born in a bubble I return years later to things that are grim and a stove that no longer brings lots of people to an overflowing apartment. The apartment has become big, old, decaying, rooms sit empty of people.
Come take photos of the rest of it says my mother. The rooms are sad and quiet and remind me that everything gets old and withers.
These photos are my only real art. This drought feels different from others, just not making art more than maybe an hour or two a week, hating what I make, seeing other’s art and liking it, wondering how it is I can’t make anything that motivates. I feel like I’ve given up.
6 Impossible Things For Breakfast 