photographs of daily images that lead to obsessions of minimalism, repetition and silence
white on white. memories of walking and waiting. allowing time to understand itself first, so then i too can take refuge in its understanding. marking moments with these quiet spaces. empty. vacantly occupied like many of the street calls or remnants of echoes in the air, silenced by fingers over my ears — wishing — wanting.
as sitting upright, pacing back-and-forth to tunes of mozart or rachmaninov, sounds of memories and smells and songs dreamt, skin touched, lives lived. pacing in and out of the studio, doors shut and sounds quieted only to hums, drips, echoes of laughter.
and it was gone and here all at once. here — the white on white, plain as day is bright. and still, night would come, but the white would fall on white. squares of white. …of white.
walking on main street in johnson by the quilted lily i heard the 5 train as i used to so many times before. was it to the met or downtown to great jones street. i felt like i was heading downtown in my westward direction.
crowds of people only a memory. rushing with their coffee in hand. time seemed endless here, days became months and hours, days.
the trucks moving by, transporting their cargo through this desolate new england state, north, reuniting me of the silent sounds of the city.
asleep, i would find comfort in the silence. the noise. people warned me of having my head at the street, against the wall of the old religious halfway house, but i found comfort in it. i was home.
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