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I live in New York. I'm a photographer. I was Gawker's house photographer since 2004, and nowadays I'm a regular contributor to Vogue. This is the Home of the Vain waiting room, come on in.
“I should not dare to leave my friend, because if he should die while I was gone and I — too late — should reach the heart that wanted me; if I should stab the patient faith so sure I’d come — so sure I’d come — it listening, listening, went to sleep reciting my tardy name. My heart would wish it broke before, since breaking then were useless as next morning’s sun, where midnight frosts had lain.”
— Emily Dickinson
Buy Died in the Wool: Manafon Variations. More Sylvian. More Fennesz.
In vials of ivory and coloured glass unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfume.
Morse code pulse throb ache reverb whisper sigh grace drift ocean radio waves.
Buy Radio Amor. More Tim Hecker. Also: Fennesz, Sakamoto.
The targets hit will be non-specific: we’ll roll the numbers, play with chance, all suitable locations unplanned in advance, someone’s back kitchen stacked like a factory with improvised devices (there’s bound to be injuries with improvised devices), no phone-ins, no courtesy, no kindness.
And it’s not just the boredom; it’s something endemic, it’s the fear of disorder stretched to its limits. The safety in numbers is just a contrivance, for the future will contain random acts of senseless violence.
“I would like to see you, it’s lovely to see you. Come and take me somewhere. Come take me out.”
