The misty afternoon sunk into the tall grass growing on the roadside. An angel's face showing up at the crossroad. Could ya give me a lift, mister? She came from Sicil-y, hitchhiked her way across Ital-y. Hauling her case, thumbin’ a ride. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules. Time for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. As for you girls, you must risk everything for freedom, and give everything for passion, loving everything that your hearts and your bodies love. The only thing higher for a girl and more sacred for a young woman than her freedom and her passion should be her desire to make her life into poetry, surrendering everything she has to create a life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in her imagination. You may call her a tramp, a gipsy, but it goes deeper than that. She's not looking for anything. She's not aimless. It's just that her aims are different from most. No longer to be poisoned by civilization she flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild. Home she wrote -- Dear Mom, I've hitchhiked to eternity. I shalt not return. Don't be mad.
Looking into the lens I ask myself: well, people spot a big black lens, and they worry about what they are doing, or how their hair looks - but nobody sees the person holding the camera. I am Big Shot and I had fallen hard for the whole gadgetry, eyelike nature of the thing: a tiny piece of glass slowing, bending, organizing light – the film keeping the image like a secret, tucked neatly into the sleek black box, like bugs in a jar. The first cameras had only inventors, buffs and enthusiasts to operate them. Since there were then no professional photographers, there could not be amateurs either. It was a gratuitous, that is, an artistic activity, though with few pretensions to being an art. It was only with its industrialization that photography came into its own as art. What it once took a very intelligent eye to see, anyone can see now. Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing – which means that, like every mass art form, photography is not practiced by most people as an art. A photographer's mind thinks that everything that is not photographed is lost, as if it never existed, and therefore in order to really live you must photograph as much as you can, and to photograph as much as you can you must either live in the most photographable way possible, or else consider photographable every moment of your life.
Is a picture really worth a thousand words? What thousand words? A thousand words from a lunatic, or a thousand words from Nietzsche? Actually, Nietzsche was a lunatic. And what about a thousand words from a rambler vs. 500 words from Mark Twain? Photographs, which cannot themselves explain anything, are inexhaustible invitations to deduction, speculation, and fantasy. Standing alone, photographs promise an understanding they cannot deliver. In the company of words, they take on meaning, but they slough off one meaning and take on another with alarming ease. In contrast to the written account – which, depending on its complexity of thought, reference, and vocabulary, is pitched at a larger or smaller readership – a photograph has only one language and is destined potentially for all visual readers. Many photos may speak a thousand words, but only a few may contain a whole, comprehensive library.
I drove all night and arrived at yesterday. Or could it be the day before? The daguerre'd past can grow foggy for a girl that doesn't check rear-view mirrors. Planning for this trip never occurred to me, so here I am pondering what I’ll do with this rare chance at rewriting my story. I knew it was a trip I’d have to undertake, my heart wouldn’t have it any other way; this stubborn part of me that refuses defeat, that stays here, that refuses to leave. I feel him here in this place, a lingering phantom. Oh, I might say many things, but I very well may, turn this car around and go find new company. After all, we already tried this, didn’t we? I think I’ll venture out on my own. Maybe there’s something in yesterday that I missed the first time around. It would be a shame to waste this opportunity. Although, I’d have to drive far to find a day that doesn’t have his scent. I’m not sure if the road will ever lead away from him. I won’t fight destiny, if I end up on his street, I’ll take love’s gift to me. For now, I'm laid back. I'll stay in this moment and soak up yesterday's sun, feeling his revenant eyes on my bare thighs, our hearts on the run. ~ Francesca
The third day on dusty tracks. Tough hard core racing. Tired eyes, but still wild at heart. Dirty, hungry, worn out, but never without a lipstick and always with a little smile for the paparazzin' photographers. In less enlightened times the best way to impress women was to own a hot car. But women wised up and realized it was better to buy their own hot cars so they would not have to ride around with jerks. I had always been a fast driver. It was impatience as much as anything: chafing at the fact that I couldn’t actually do anything while driving - except to drive. Riding a hot car is a lot like hot sex to me, or a lot like I keep thinking hot sex should be: a total body experience, overwhelming, to all the senses, taking you to places you’ve never been, packing a punch that leaves you breathless and touches your soul. But two-hundred forty horsepower isn’t enough to move me anymore -- enough to move my body, yes, but not my soul.
What have I become? – she asked herself in soft spoken tune while laying the unknown depths of her thoughts down beside her. Life has become lifeless and disheartening. In her hiding place there is no soul to be smelled, not even a fowl in the air. The expanding deep sigh’s hurts with the caverns of her cavity, holding the secrets that are withheld from others eyes. Only yesterdays sweeps upon the shores of her eyelids, refusing to let them shut. Oh, not another sun shall arise that cannot be seen. As her sight starts to fade to the colorless end of hues, so there on the dock in death’s hands she waits for time to receive her like the black cloth upon her delicate skin. Reluctant to the coldness of silent winds that brushes against her shoulders in a sweepingly manner. The sweetness of memories at last has been cast away within the ripples of the water, no longer are they soothing as the salt from her gaze stream like fire down the high rises of her cheeks and for every one of them that plunged into her hands was added to her pond of many tears.
I lie down on many a station platform; I squat on many a bench; the landscape glides past the waggon's windows with its villages, their thatched roofs like caps, pulled over the white-washed, half-timbered houses, its corn-fields, gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the slanting light, its orchards, its barns and old lime trees. It becomes disturbing, mysterious, and familiar. I stand at the rattling window and hold on to the frame. The train stamps and stamps onward. The names of the stations begin to take on meaning and my heart trembles. These names mark the boundaries of my youth. But youth is a baffling time. The present moment is nice but it does not last. Living in it is like waiting at a railway junction for the morning train; some day you will have to leave it and you do not know where the train will take you. Sooner or later you must move down an unknown road that leads beyond the range of the imagination, and the only certainty is that the trip has to be made. In this respect youth is exactly like old age; it's a time of waiting before a big trip to an unknown destination. The chief difference is that youth waits for the morning train and age waits for the night train.
There are some girls, that never become women. And some women that never become ladies. Females are innately the more vulnerable species, though saying so out loud just pisses them off. But it's the truth. Leading with emotion, hearts on sleeves, timid and subservient due to low self worth; low self esteem. Those that are happy to remain girls, don't question their inner strength. They have not been tempted by the fruits of their own minds, by the ache of their untouched souls, by the places deep within the female body that once touched, must be touched again and again, or she'll fade away. Those girls kneel before life, without the call to submission, but simply because that is where they fit comfortably in their own existence. What makes a woman a woman, is the ability to allow the call of her inner Goddess to be heard by all parts of her being. Finding her inner masochist, her inner witch, her inner Aphrodite, by allowing temptations of the mind and flesh to seep into her soul. That woman craves the strength her power instills in her. And she craves even more a man that can take her power and make her even stronger, by relieving her of it. The burden of power can be heavy for a female, and sometimes a woman needs to be a girl. And as for the woman that may never be a lady, she is unique. Some women can turn off the inner beast, present themselves with a certain level of reservation, in the right company. But some, those truly wild creatures, are of the rawest natural state -- those are the women that need to be tamed, by one that holds their best interest, within his reins. ~ Francesca
It was, you know, one of those nights where the only sound is of you drinking and the people outside who have each other to drink with. The cityscape was dark except for some building lights. Well, the lights, they can't give me the sunset, but they can give me the night and I will rather walk alone in the light than to live in the dark. By night each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark and even the most commonplace and familiar objects take on another character. People group themselves differently - they draw closer together, as if in fear. But down there, at the carousel, the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil. Like a wheel of fortune the carousel starts to spin. Step aboard and we will fly through the sky. Rien ne va plus. Laughter illuminates the darkness. All over there lights were coming on in the purple-blue dusk. Colored lights blink on and off, racing across the deepening sky. Shadows follow, joyful, laughing sprites. Long twirling ribbons of light, red, green, violet, all flashing like fire. The street lights looked delicate and frail, as though they might suddenly float away from their lampposts like balloons. Everything was beautiful. It was hard to tell which was reality and which was reflection, as if there were two displays, above and below, going on simultaneously. And the painted wagons go up and down. We're captive on the carousel of time. We can't return; we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game. The seasons change, things change, but the old carousel is always here -- it reminds people of the good times.
Art should be functional. And art should tell a story. The art of storytelling, a narrative that places you in the situation of every photograph; allowing the viewer to be as closest to the soul of the subject as possible. The distinctive feature of the photographer is his ability to surprise and to exceed our expectations. But who really knows what is on in the photographer’s mind when work is created? In spite of all the advances of civilization, woman has remained as she came out of the hand of nature. She has the nature of a savage, who is faithful or faithless, magnanimous or cruel, according to the impulse that dominates her at the moment. Decipher me or I will devour you! The female bloom, nearly stripped, but never obvious, nor offering little, rides lightly on the time’s line where the space opens into the high plain’s depth. The feminine form factor, represented by the curves of elegance and playfulness, positioned in a barren, male landscape, symbolizing life's portraiture of relationships – the joining of the two human universes, male and female, merged in nature’s perfect, but therefore also rare, Fibonacci harmony. But if men and women would begin to live their ephemeral dreams, every phantom would become a person with whom to begin a story of pursuits, pretenses, misunderstandings, clashes, oppressions, and the carousel of fantasies would come to a halt instantly.