Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty; that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them - will rain down in buckets. But good luck does not rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck does not even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms. The nobodies; nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The no ones, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way. The nobodies, who are not, but could be. Who do not speak languages, but dialects. Who do not have religions, but superstitions. Who do not create art, but handicrafts. The nobodies, who do not have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources. Who do not have faces, but arms. They, who do not have names, but numbers. The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
Look at children. Of course they may quarrel, but generally speaking, they do not harbor ill feelings as much or as long as adults do. Most adults have the advantage of education over children, but what is the use of an education if they show a big smile while hiding negative feelings deep inside. Children don’t act in such a manner. If they feel angry with someone, they express it, and then it is finished. They can still play with that person the following day. Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. If we throw blankets over our children's dreams, we darken their world and extinguish their desire to live. I'd rather my kid die with a wild fire in its heart than with a malfunctioning or drained out fuse. Always allow your kids to keep humming with dreams and ideas that fuel their passions. Never tell them something is impossible. If you have a really strong determined kid, they'll go out there killing themselves trying to do the unachievable just to prove you wrong. And if you have a weak kid, they'll give up on life and settle for bagging Cokes and potato chips at your local grocery store.
Cars are the ultimate symbol of freedom, independence, and individualism; they offer the freedom to go anywhere, whenever it suits and with whomever one chooses. The whole idea of the road, of going from one place to another, is essentially American. And when Henry Ford made cheap, reliable cars people said, "Nah, what’s wrong with the horse?" That was a huge bet he made - and it worked. Nowadays the car has become an article of dress without which we feel uncertain, unclad, and incomplete in the urban compound. One has to go back a while to recall a time when cars were simply means of transportation. In those days, they were just considered automobiles. Today, cars are extensions of their owners. They make statements about the character and status of their owners. They are loved, polished and pampered. They elicit a wide range of emotions, ranging from exasperation when they don’t work to pure delight when they are expensive, beautiful and drive like a dream -- they cause people to stare and drool and say "some day ..."
I am wearing a pair of shoes. Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair. Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them. I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy. I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. They never talk about my shoes. To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable. To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them. But, once you put them on, you can never take them off. I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes. There are many pairs in this world. Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them. Some have learned how to walk in them so they don’t hurt quite as much. Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt. No woman deserves to wear these shoes. Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman. These shoes gave me the strength to face anything -- they made me who I am.
Every portrait that is done with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. In photography, the lens might become your brush, the tripod your easel, and you paint a picture be juggling with the light that does pass the shadows. The painter constructs, the photographer discloses. While a painting, even one that meets photographic standards of resemblance, is never more than the stating of an interpretation, a photograph is never less than the registering of an emanation - light waves reflected by objects - a material vestige of its subject in a way that no painting can be. Though there is a terrible truthfulness about photography: the ordinary academician gets hold of a pretty model, paints her as well as he can, calls her Bambola Viva, and puts a nice Shakespeare verse underneath, and the picture is admired beyond measure. The photographer finds the same pretty girl, he dresses her up and photographs her, and calls her Bambola Viva, but somehow it is no good - it is still Miss American Pie, the model -- it is too true to be Bambola Viva.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl and the way she lay around. In my madness I was actually in love with her for the few clicks it all lasted; it was the same unmistakable ache and stab across the mind, the same sighs, the same pain, and above all the same reluctance and fear to approach. Her little shoulders drove me mad; I hugged her and hugged her. And she loved it. I love love, she said, closing her eyes. I promised her beautiful love. I gloated over her. Our stories were told; we subsided into silence and sweet anticipatory thoughts. It was as simple as that. This was my girl and my kind of girlsoul. And I told her that. In her neck I hid myself like a lost snow goose of Australia, seeking the perfume of her breast. She didn’t let me, she was a good girl. The poor big alley cat had black ideas about her legs that he hid from himself, also in his prayers didn’t mention. I gnawed her back with my eyes; she loved that; and that was bastardly I didn’t know she loved me. -- I didn’t understand.
It's never too late to have a happy childhood bit it is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which has been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies -- and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. Youth is wasted on the young. It was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they'd have no heart to start at all.
I am a soul snapper. A soul catcher. A soul maker. I want the essential, nothing more. Remember, I am young and I know nothing. I am on the road to find out what moves me in life. Life is so much funnier behind these lenses. Come on, I am not looking for the sense of life. It’s all about having fun, knowing new places, smelling, tasting, feeling it with all all my senses, my lenses. I came so far. I left nothing behind. Life is a journey brother, and photography is the shepherd. Photography is the best way where you can save your sweet past. Take lots of photos, because you will forget most of what you see when you are traveling through life. But keep in mind: a ‘still photograph still is a photograph’ and bloody Photoshop can go stuff it. A picture should be honest, even if the subject is contrived on the ground -- not dolled up for advertising punch or sex appeal.
The world is always running away from society and the only way to keep the stuff that has happened in the past is by taking photographs. People say that a time machine can not be invented, but they have already invented a device that can stop time – cameras are the world’s first-time machines. We can keep memories of things alive with photographs. We have been able to rescue it on film, and no one can remediate those photographs, we can keep them as long as we want to. It seems positively unnatural to travel for pleasure without taking a camera along. Photographs will offer indisputable evidence that the trip was made, that the program was carried out, that fun was had. A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it – by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, into a souvenir. The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people’s reality, and eventually in one’s own. Needing to have reality confirmed and experience enhanced by photographs is an aesthetic consumerism to which everyone is now addicted.
This damned motor car has caught her clothing disarranging the delicate fabric of her dress revealing white lace-trimmed nylon never intended for public view. She was tempted, sliding into the front seat just to feel and now her and everyone’s eyes are drawn to her bare skin. Her thoughts race to meet the tempo of her heartbeat. ‘Cold and undersexed’ is her charge leaving the pristine virginity of this vehicle to become the symbol of her lover’s desire and she feels incapacitated. He would attend to the chassis in the most sub rosa fashion, lingering on a Sunday morning his hands careful to remove even the slightest blemish from its surfaces. She senses his touch and slowly succumbs to the realization that she competes with the steel and mechanics of his new mistress. Perplexed she has an overwhelming wild urge to deface the cold and heartless beauty of this machine. She hesitates as she admires the gadgets that glitter with an appeal. She considers the freedom it promises. The engine might be temperamental but that is fixable, and the gauges don’t lie. Pedals and levers at his command - the car’s power and speed can induce ecstasy but on demand. It can be neglected and abandoned but will serve on request. She is reluctant to harm this automobile as she recognizes a kindred spirit and yet knows that she cannot rival it. This perception sparks a fierce fire within. Her promise to herself this: She is no man’s possession. Nylon and soft, hot skin skim the cool and textured interior and slowly smiling lips brush the steering wheel; her subtle fragrance is her only remaining trace for she has walked away -- leaving them both behind. ~ Kalahari