My photographs just occasionally turned around and bit me on the bum.
Time was a blur to me then, and Paris, in all its postcard perfection, was a watery smear of cafes, croissants, and cabs.
Buildings and other objects carry the words and thoughts of those who made them and those who lived in, used, or otherwise interacted with them.
If I make claim to anything, it’s to being both a poet and a photographer of place.
This boils down to the value of human exchange, which is, I suspect, near the heart of art in general.
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