Hidden In Paper

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It rained last night and the bark on the trees seemed to come alive this morning. The sap must be starting to run and I was already thinking about paper. Seven pages of Moby Dick crumbled into fragemts in my hand as I drew the birthing woman last night. The shape of fragments seemed echoed in the peeling patterns of the tree bark. A woman walking by in camoflage pants seemed to walk right out of my thoughts because Crosswalk For Shadows And Keys just slipped into the archive.

The Book And Illusions

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I’m only on chapter 2 of Paul Auster’s new novel, but I’m already having the strange frission of reading about a place you know in that place you know and walking around in a space between reality and fiction.

Taking a snap of the cover in the place shown on the cover seemed irresistable, but by playing with a few variations, it turned into a meditation on the magic of novels… sort of snatching characters right out of the blue, as it were.

Speaking of books, there’s a nice piece about yours truly at if:book.

The Cars Parked On My Street Are All The Same Only Different

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Back on the ground where the rubber hits the road and all discussions of China these days end in the question of cars, so I’m dusting off a trick I once did with a super 8 camera (fifteen years ago for a college art film) and watching people and watching cars is like watching waves: infinite variation and vast sameness. I’m not one of those people who likes looking at cars for a thrill, but I do like the hubs.