time out here
moves like hot molasses
like melted ice
like race-winning tortoises
and if time is memory
then memory slips away
like a ferret through a crack
like a worm on a hook
and if my thoughts make me who I am
then I'm the Milky Way in Boston
phosphorescence at noon
the new moon
hovering just above normal
just below sane
a line but the edges are blurred like rain
infinity but never reaching
and we imagine
perfection but the results are varied not stained
into our bliss
a constructed ideal
which we imagine
exists but reality is lost without pain
Lately I've been feeling rather uninspired by staring at a blank computer screen. More than that, I've been feeling unsatisfied by words and craving substance - things that speak with texture and form.
I suppose that's what you call art.
I spoke to an old friend about this - someone I grew up with, produced backyard plays and bubble machines with, and who is now working towards her Masters degree at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. It turned out that she, too, was breaking out of her usual medium, and had written a beautiful piece that explained some of the abstract art she had been creating over the last few semesters.
So when I visited Grace in Chicago we collaborated - she gave me her words and had me write them across her body. Photography was a medium I fell in love with in high school but essentially gave up after after losing access to a darkroom, so I was extremely excited to photograph the result using a top-notch digital camera (and knowing that I had a top-notch digital editor).
Grace DuVal is a lifelong friend and inspiration. If I told you she makes amazing things, you wouldn't begin to understand. So don't try to understand. Go see for yourself.
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