Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Victoria Williams: 0140

These were the lessons.
What was the desired effect?

Friday, February 24, 2012

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Victoria Williams: 0139

He is dead. (Il est mort.)
And how would you say that as a question?

Friday, February 17, 2012

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Junk Mail

Albert had worked with Juanita in the same envelope factory for 8 years and had only decided in the last 6 months that he was in love with her. They worked in different sections of the factory and in all those years Albert had barely said ten words to her. For months Albert dithered on how he would declare his love to her. Eventually one Friday, frustrated, he decided he would write her an email. Albert spent all of that day crafting the email, spending two hours alone on the subject header, until it became, what can neutrally be described, as the most devastating love email ever composed. Unfortunately, when Albert hit the send button the email went not to Juanita’s inbox but to her spam folder. It seemed that the language of love was identical to the language of junk mail in the eyes of the factory’s spam filter. Albert waited patiently for two weeks for a reply before committing suicide. Before doing so, he wrote Juanita a suicide note and then popped it into a postbox. Upon receiving it, Juanita, sick to death of dealing with envelopes all day, tossed it into the bin.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Victoria Williams: 0138

When love affairs begin on trains you think they can go anywhere, and the price of thinking this on the West Coast Mainline is disappointment. This is romance: some waste ground next to the viaducts, and the sound of a car alarm. This is life thereafter: the bills get redder, and the lights go out without anybody touching the switch. But then he’ll smile and say, ‘magic’ and light some candles.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Beards: 0024

Friday, February 10, 2012

Portrait 2 by Gary Cummiskey

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Chatsworth: 0004

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Victoria Williams: 0137

The funeral was beginning and they lowered their voices. He took her hand and kissed it, but suddenly his nose wrinkled and his grip tightened. He pressed her hand to his face like a handkerchief and inhaled sharply. ‘What’s that smell on your fingers?’ ‘Nothing,’ she tries to draw her hand away but he holds it tight. ‘It’s just jojoba oil.’ He throws her hand back to her: ‘You think I don’t know?’ He turns away. ‘It’s pussy.’

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Beards: 0023

Friday, February 3, 2012

Portrait 1 by Gary Cummiskey

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Spent by Danielle Naidoo

I should be saving for something.
Or saving something.
I'm spent.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012