One early Saturday morning,
I got up, packed up the photo gear,
lined them up perfectly to the door
I went out to park my car in front of the townhouse
after parking in neural and emergency break
I walked to the house door
“Fxxx, where are my keys!”
without outsourcing unreachable contact
I killed myself.
for the sake of more torture on me
I drove to the closest drug store picked up 3 one time use cameras and started the road trip
Hardly can I reject the fact that the imagery is cliché, nor its Americana characteristic, however, undoubtedly the nature of a photographer is unfolded here. How much can you do without the staple stool? What does hopeless mean to a lens-based artist?
In the end, the desire and believe of picture making will conquer the barrier, and lead you to somewhere you belong.