Monday, December 29, 2008

Everyday Should Be Like...

(Sugar Docks, Toronto, 2008)

It's hard to know what they're thinking, but if you look at the little details; how their hands moves and their eyes look deep yours and then they too notice their hand movement and look back at you; unsure how to take your expression, and then they cock their head a few degrees to the right, and you lean your head forwards at the same time cocking it slightly to the lower left of your body, and she smiles, maybe out of confession or just to actualize a moment; a moment the both of you just shared as you smile back, you had this moment you're thinking, you just created, maybe even birthed this moment, and between both of you; you and her are the proud owners of this moment as you move your hands to express what your words are telling her; detailing the size of things, the way things move in your world, and their scale because it just seems to require hand movement that almost knocks over the condiments if it weren't for her watchful eyes, looking at your every movement, catching the clearly red ketchup bottle that could only be ketchup, not mustard like the clearly yellow mustard bottle, and now it is in her hand, the ketchup not the mustard, and she is looking into your eyes, she is saying with the slow blinking gaze that she too acknowledges this moment, her hands approaching yours, she looks excited, like she had discovered something, maybe even invented something as she gets closer and closer and her lips part like a divine escape from an Egyptian pharaoh, as she inhales you inhale, and she looks deeper into your eyes, and you look deeper into hers, and your lips part like waters of the Red Sea, and the flood is in heavy clouds now, as you make hand gestures implying you have an ark, and she gestures with her hands she has the animals, your hands form two legs each and do a walking motion across the table, she looks deeper into your eyes, she tells you with her gaze, she has two of each, we only need each other now.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

...In The End

(Aneta In Front of An Almost Leafless Bush, December 15th, 2008)

(Self-Portrait In Front of Hawai'ian Curtains, December 17th, 2008)

(Plants Breaking Through the Snow, December 17th, 2008)

(More Plants Breaking Through the Snow, December 17th, 2008)

(A Car Under A Fair Amount of Snow, December 18th, 2008)

(A Tree Seen Through a Bizarre, December 18th, 2008)

(People Walking Through Storm, December 18th, 2008)
(A Greenhouse Surrounded by Winter as the Sun Falls, December 20th, 2008)

(Leon and Katie Taking In Sunset, December 20th, 2008)

(Aneta Before a Sunset, December 15th, 2008)

Saturday, December 20, 2008

I Found You In A Box

(Niagara Falls 1960-70s, Unknown Photographer)

I would like to say that nothing is a mistake, that truth is absolute. I would like to believe in a happy ending to all of this. I would like to believe I could live just off of hope. And as a man sheds his youthful skin away an old man emerges. His memory fades as the brown hues of his eyes turn grey. The future is a foggy thing. The past is a foggy thing. Fingers crack, and crumble as his voice thins to an envelope's edge. He speaks, he cries, and he sleeps, soon forgetting what made his heart beat. Where have all the beautiful girls gone, where are the feet to dance, the hands to hold, and the loves to make? He cannot remember, he cannot get up, and he cannot say. Somewhere deep inside, he escapes his time. He is no longer at an armchair, as he walks with his children across a hillside looking over an ocean. This is his last memory.

(Niagara Falls 1960-70s, Unknown Photographer)

Monday, December 15, 2008

When I Was...

(Faye On Route To Nathan's Concert (and The First Person I'll Shoot With This New Camera), December 8th 2008)

Recently I wanted to go back to a time in my work that was very simple and fast enough to just capture a moment. I purchased a medium format rangefinder, and purposed to carrying it with my everywhere, along side with my trusty compact flash. I want to capture details of moments I want to remember, from the people that tie me to events and times of my life, and the things that happen in-between my conceptual work.

(Technician Erin Mixing It Up In Labcoat and Chemical Gloves, December 9th 2008)

(Aaron With Shovel In Backyard, December 10th 2008)

(Katie Looking Down In Unknown Front Yard, December 10th 2008)

(Kotama Before He Gives A Sticker To Jo Louie and His Food Being Eaten By Others As Nathan Pays The Bills, December 10th 2008)

(Brown On Brown On Brown, December 14th 2008)

(Unknown Wire Tied To Tree and The Bickford Centre of Education, December 14th 2008)

(Elise and The $95 or $13 Dress in Thrift Shop, December 14th 2008)

(Self-Portrait In Front of Interesting Car, December 14th 2008)

(Amanda With Black Dog In Front of Grocery Store, December 14th 2008)

(Nathan Stands Before An Empty Lot With Frozen Water and Various Destroyed Items, December 14th 2008)

I hope to continue this as long as I could, as these moments become perminent reminders of the passage of time. I have recently been fascinated with Martin Parr's work as well.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

On A Whim

We didn't have much of a concept; go on the road, depose of two full sets of clothes, and write on a collaborative story. What ended up happening wasn't a photo shoot, or performance, or even installation, it was one of those things you call an adventure.

I have never done a collaborative art piece, and so when I approached my friend and fellow artist with an idea of going on the road and shooting something she responded with a firm, yes. She'd get the car, I'll bring the camera, and we'll just make up the rest as we go.

We decided to do everything unanimously and intuitively, and try to make this project as even as possible. So when we decided on the general idea of going on the road and leaving evidence of traveling along the road we came up with the idea to also include text in a collaborative story; where we go back and forth in writing, creating a stereo dynamic of narrative.

We choose the locations by scouting the road around us, looking at each other and if we both said yes we'd hit the next exit, and find ourself in a small town as we dissect the scenery, finding the right location within the right location.

Like the writing we would compose the scene, moving the clothes around, and composing the shot separately to gain two perspectives. Later as contact sheets we then chose which image we liked more.
And as for the results, the dynamic of the duo in both writing and imagery was beyond our expectation. It was a chance to let the ideas flow naturally, and to simplify the process of how we make art. It was an escape from a lot of things, and everything just felt right. And in the end it wasn't about the art but it was about documenting a part of ourselves that isn't as organized, external, or complete. We were following a faint voice from within each of us that tells of only the truth in who we are.

"Let's us remember, to come back here one day, again and again, maybe even forever, after we fall, after we turn to dirt, and our eyes are someone else's, we will return as ghosts. Like the air of 1927."

*Images above were documenting photos of Untitled Collaboration of Brendan George Ko and faye, taken on December 3rd, 2008. Final images will appear in time on and are printed as 30x40" c-prints.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

An Intimate Following...

The title should've spoken for itself, but here I am, the chatter of fingers and plastic keys, oh how I miss that satisfaction of a typewriter. We have our moments, and we still do, but those times are just right, for the right person, and when I can take my time. I feel like the reporter, the man in the press, or rather, the man who has his head beneath the press as he eyes it for flaws, this machine can come down on me, it can take my head off, and what will I do now. Sure, the Paper will cover my lost with a fine sum to my family but like a giant check one receives for an anonymous contest where photographs of the winner are taken, it is useless, a piece of paper. We can never live a lie, my wife would just stop working. I would like to think my days would mark the last, that the apocalypse is marked by me leaving this planet. I am selfish. I am modest, I wanted to see the end with her, but now I'm just here, headless with a today's paper in my hand. I used to write for her, this is what I get. I used to be there for her, this is what I got. And now that I am gone my spirit doesn't float above my body, I don't see that world I once lived in. All I see is a black, not a blank, but a black to my new vision adjusting to nothing. I want to carve our names into the nothing, say we were here even though you aren't here with me. I thought by me doing so you were here, maybe you will find your way here, and we'll leave the kids to our neighbors until you find a way to bring me back. You hated my job, but you supported me, I should've listened to you. You tell me to shut up, to be silent and to just come back. You are looking right at me. You don't move, your eyes have these dots, little dark brown dots that orbit your iris. I wanted to be reborn into one of them, maybe all of them, I was a selfish man. Our kids would grow up, without us, and they will be fine, we had good neighbors, we lived in a good neighborhood. Our oldest son would be a writer too, he'll start writing for his girlfriends and then he'll write novels. He'll be a natural, we'll cheer for him, you'll forget you were supposed to take me back as you watch from overhead at our children's progress. We were so close to never seeing this but we aren't apart of their lives anymore, they had forgotten about us. We are strangers now, floating just above their heads, watching everything, we turn our eyes when they are doing bad things, or natural things that are bad to look at, they are, afterall, our kids, we respect them. And when we grow tired of this life we return to our old lives. We awake on a bed that was our own in the past life, we haven't had kids yet, and we aren't married. We are young again, but we feel old, knowing what is around the bend because we had just lived it. And what can be followed when it has already has happened. We are at a fork in the road; to the left is our lives as we knew it, and right is the lives we tried to lived before the convenience of comfort filled our bellies. And so the rest of our lives comes down to a decision we had before us. We know of the consequences for one of them, but the unknown holds its adventure to us. We decide to stay with each other, knowing that our lives will play out the same, and we leave the mystery, the unknown to find itself. I wanted to live my life following you as you follow me, and we follow each other, down the road, with our children as we follow them again, and hold them with our hands, no longer looking from above as the day repeats itself. And to live it all over see, to feel, and to touch again, it feels even better, taking in everything with twice the appreciation. IN THE DAYS OF REPETITION, I follow you, you follow, and we'll be just fine, like dandy lions in the cracks of sidewalks, one after another, over and over.
*Sorry for burning your toast, Faye.