Dust particles once docile now run amok amongst the other small things like inside the eye of a camera or the iris of an eye.

Who sees these things if not the photographer, that solitary figure all alone on the hill, his camera pointing towards the sun?

His subjects matter, his vision is not cloudy, it proceeds beyond the scope.

In the East Village once there was a poetess who now lies in a state of rest, they thought she was taking a siesta but the flies had already began to gather around her mouth. The night is often long and sad, so let’s go outside and smoke cigarettes.

Never have we seen these many beautiful pictures from your oeuvre. You usually only let us see the outtakes, the polaroids you toss so gallantly into the biting wind. I liked the one with the red background, the one with the girl rolling around laughing naked in the bright green grass.

Sometimes in your pictures the night seems hot white. Unheard voices populate the air scattered reflections pixilate. A curtain of lace is diffused and becomes a backdrop, the patterns create a mosaic that turns into something macabre. But only at first glance does it appear sinister. Portraits are not for the faint of heart.

Life is racing through time, speed is a necessary evil. These memories concealed the past menagerie, photographs all laid out in a row.

The unconscious mind is fertile territory for the imagination, for the timeline of thought is a mystery. Photography is a time machine, a photograph creates a vacuum in time, it is times lapse of judgment.

An old roll of film unveils the future, which too is too blurred and out of focus, even though we continue to reach for it it never comes into view. A photograph is cheating time.

A good photograph has the symmetry of a perfect haiku. It is beyond the reach of the law. It is the unknown secrets kept between me & you. The things we talk about when we are alone together at night that no one alone hears save for the two of us.