I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my art. I have fun doing it (usually), and sometimes I even like how it turns out. However, it takes me so damn long to do a piece – usually because I can’t decide what the fuck I’m doing and will change it 50 times before settling back on the original again – that I’m beginning to feel like…
I challenged my friend Feng to a self-portrait photo battle a while back. The rules were simple: cropping and color toning allowed, and nothing else.
This series came upon me by accident. I took the first shot of the series without realizing what I’d really done, and was then compelled to do more.
Bridges just make interesting photographs. Structurally, they’re fascinating, and that transfers very well to film. I’m simply exploiting that.
The thing about it was that Jack’s life was pretty dull, right up until the day he got shot in the face. That was the event that changed everything. It was one of those things that didn’t really hurt at all, that just happened too fast for the brain to register the pain. It looked nasty though. Not the sort of blemish that a little makeup would take care of,…
I could tell from the moment I saw him that he’d changed, somehow regressed into that state in which we’d found him wandering the forest two years before. There was no sign of the rational FBI agent Kyle MacLennan, merely a shadowy, hollow shell, babbling in delusion. We’d received his phone call the previous night, in which he’d relayed fragments of a story. Something about homicide, an antique dealer and…
When I first saw the shadow that he had become, I didn’t know whether to pity or fear Agent MacLennan. We arrived on the scene to find him raving about immortals and homicide, and had to forcibly remove him. He was unhelpful at first, speaking in fragmented sentences, refusing to fully answer any direct questions in a manner as which could help us piece together what had happened. Only after…