The birth of the critic in me … it all started blacking out teeth on supermodels in Redbook or Cosmo or Teen or whatever else my older sister left laying around. It wasn’t just me. All of us eviscerated those magazines, not with words but making hag faces, whiskers, wrinkles and black eyes on the smooth, perfect and unhuman image of ’70s disco beauty. Fuck all that. And who doesn’t love an easy target. Who doesn’t want to take a crap on the elite, and where are the elite more crap-worthy than latin america. Yes, I might run this risk of crossing some boundary on crossing a border, but the brand is more originates in the crass anglo-images of the fair-skinned conquerors, of euro-races, in the notion of purity and that something better is imported from somewhere that miscegenation (supposedly) doesn’t exist. I promise, nest time I’ll challenge myself more.
In retrospect, boredom has always had its benefits, boredom at work, boredom in high school, boredom on saturday night, boredom in meetings, boredom in mom’s car, boredom in my car, boredom listening to bored people talk about things even they find boring. Boredom goes well with fear, fear of eye contact in particular, fear of anyone looking and seeing i’m afraid, or bored. At least fear can be exciting. Like you I filled the margins of books with my doodles, or expanded into making entire notebooks of word doodles, with really no substantive notes on whatever I was supposed to be paying attention to. Sometimes I run across these shrunken notebooks and my attempts to be amusing. This notebook was from an event in rwanda, which should be exciting, perhaps. But boredom has a way of making itself at home anywhere. And after all, Rwanda is just somebody else’s backyard, as common to them as your own dumpy surroundings. Eh?
i just returned from ethiopia. my suitcase was lost. i got through it just fine. i couldn’t shoot but half a left-over roll of film. these are some pictures i took