derived from the similar
as time filters by — views of horrific killing — war, hatred, dissatisfaction. the privileged wave their arms for the things in direct relation to themselves — the not-so hidden agendas of self-preservation through gain and want. the horrors are everywhere linked in everyone. the divine victory seems hopeful to those returning home to nothing — a collapsed city. dreams. needs. and still the privileged stand desiring more, purchasing more, feeding into the fears and lies of administrations.
it seems like no better time to be question the studio practice… what? why? who? how does one continue on certain paths in practice? and/or is now the reason the practice remains steadfast? as we search for the answers — resting in our homes, in our studios, i wonder what a city destroyed smells like.
August 16th, 2006 at 7: 15 am
When bricks become faces with blood and sweat all over, cries of death and destruction, that photo is a beautiful poetry on rebellion.
I am really impressed with your work, Comrade. Linking you back right away from my blogroll, keep up the drum rolling :-)