The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives, dead men were on that train, wearing all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black misery, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt. Industrial, modern - all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown. And those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, on the home-pile of rotten railway sleepers and sawdust, bath of steam, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely overheated tin cans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some wood stacks, the noise of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of iron, bloated espresso machine balancing on thin narrow tracks and sphincters of dynamos - all these entangled in your mummied roots. And you there rolling towards me in the steamy sunset; all your glory in your form. The nightmare train went on through the milky sunlight its whistle screeching and the dead men inside laughing.
Through photographs, each family constructs a portrait-chronicle of itself; a portable kit of images that bears witness to its connectedness. Now they are on the auction block; a big ’4 Children For Sale - Inquire Within’ sign in a Chicago / Illinois yard mutely tells a family’s tragic story. For long months the family waged a desperate but losing battle to keep food in the mouth and a roof over their heads. With no place to turn, they decide to sell their four children. The mother was shielding her eyes from the camera while her four small children stare wonderingly sitting huddled on the steps outside. Photographie à clef -- this photograph is the remake of an infamous historical photo originally taken in 1948, that made its way into many U.S. newspapers. Redone to put a focus on the tragic case again because things have not changed that much. Human trafficking is still around in many countries and numerous children are still sold throughout the world. Many of them abused by child labor and kept in child slavery; not to mention sexual abuse and child prostitution. The little checkered dog was not part of the original story but was added to the scenery to make its own, personal statement on animal cruelty.
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.
"What have I become?" she asked herself in softly whispered 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 sighs hurt the void within her, holding 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 rise 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, the black cloth upon her skin reluctant to the coldness of silent winds that brush against her shoulders in a sweeping manner. The sweetness of memories 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. Every single one that plunged into her hands was added to her pond of many tears.
It’s disturbing. Where did everyone go? Children, horses, parents milling around the perpetual motion of the carousel. The people watchers and the people pleasers; all distracted by the magical joy of the amusing park. The spinning of the carousel eases us into the lull of dreamlike wonder, the place of our memories represented by the ticket printed on cheap paper. When the movement stops, we are confronted with reality. The deconstruction of the fairytale whose age-old wisdom is revealed through the dissolution of the disillusion. Absent mothers, always protective, allow for risk-taking and adventure that might turn into emotional growth. The fragile little princess, through suffering, becomes an adult and probably a strong woman. Life demands fulfillment of assigned, preconditioned roles. So the carousel can lead to emotional conditioning. The up’s and down’s, within predetermined patterns, is permitted, just don’t jump off, the carousel offers no exit. Comply. Submit. Discipline, or existential boredom? Emptiness powers the jump, but knowledge gives the power of choice. At some point there was, or will be, a preprogrammed turn where inevitable shouts of joy cherish the dream of the moment where magic invades the little bodies. The ride becomes electrifying. From constancy and repetition, surrounded by the sound and lights, the hypnotic effect arises, and emotional dressing is gained. ~ Deise Lemos Almeida
What happens when we let go of our sanity? Monsters are real. They live inside us, and sometimes they win. She was one of those languid women made of honey: smooth and sweet and terribly sticky. He had not intended to meet anyone, see anything. He had withdrawn solely for his personal pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his existence and found it splendid. "I want to drag knives over my skin, just to feel something other than shame, but I’m not even brave enough for that," she thought as she walked along the path, away from the small town where people scent the wind with noses of uncommon keenness. When she saw him, she trusted him because he knows all too well that the trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool. It was not a very good thing to withdraw he thought while drinking in her innocence. No. I was too busy listening to other voices to listen closely to the true one. The one coming from inside. "The death of a beautiful doll is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world," he contemplated as his thoughts turned to fantasy, his monstrous heart started evolving into a beast of burden beating in the cage of his ribs. Demanding escape. "Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality," he thought as the silence surged softly backward while he wore his wickedness as a smile and hers ran away from her face.
It is as important where a young man begins his journey with daydreams, as when. Fantasies spawned in youth, with lily pad squatters croaking out nature’s secrets, stir the imagination and set a boy to wonderment. The depths of dark ponds hold the mysteries of life, none of which can be seen by the naked eye. Yet, the agile mind of boyhood finds caverns and creatures seemingly not of this world, not of these times. Silver scaled beasts diving and darting. Snake tailed salamanders lurking amongst the brush, glimpses of color against a black and white backdrop. The hum of a dragonfly, off on a mission, carrying precious information to woodland allies hidden nearby. The mystique of hard-shelled guardians that rise to the surface in calming silence to offer a warning, stay up top to avoid the marsh monsters. As you can see, fishing for whales is not easy work, with their tall tails spinning even taller tales. The riddles of the life of a man begin with a boy, a pole, and rickety boat. ~ Francesca
Looking into the lens I ask myself: 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'm Big Shot and I had fallen hard for the whole gadgetry, eye-like 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 as an art. Photographers think 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.
First time I saw her she was lounging in a car. She had a feline seductiveness that demanded the attention of the men within her territory and the eyes and intelligence of a big cat predator. Your every instinct warned you that she was dangerous, but your every desire demanded that you not take your eyes off her. She was eloquent and witty and, rumor has it, sexually insatiable with a drug habit to rival this desire. One could only gasp at this woman's open challenge to judge her. She was powerful and a serial sexual slayer yet a woman set apart by her elegant grace. She had an air of sophistication and almost superiority but had the rhythm of nature and the body and voice of a siren. She was playing, untouchable, unavailable. She had a seductive elegance about her which makes men want her even more but a dangerous calm masked her face in respect for the depth of her cruelty. She knows how to use her body to draw attention. Visible wealth, her hair and makeup immaculate. Her beauty has, without doubt, served her well and I am sure that a sugar daddy or two takes good care of her. ~ Kalahari
Camera flashes everywhere. Photographers flushed out starlets, starlets stalked photographers. Of the celebrated tradition of little-known actresses posing for hordes of photographers, the hunt for attention becomes so fierce at Cannes that you can’t tell the hunters from the hunted. In 1962 the role of the movie queen came naturally to Natalie, who was at the top of her form. Photographers pursued Jane like jackals, avidly focused on her two outstanding talents, but this year the town posted gendarmes to prevent all sorts of celebs from taking off their bikinis. How boring! Swiss made Ursula introduced herself as Honey Rider. Honey Bee, be my honey. God created Brigitte who was cruising the beaches showcasing her new Riva boat. Italy’s Sophia accompanied Austria’s Romy who still was with France’s Alain; playing pool games at Carlton’s ‘La Piscine’. Grace was lassoed and tamed by the last pirate of the Mediterranean Sea. Out of her, he made ‘Grace On The Rocks.’ I was after the face in the celebrated crowd, after that orchestral shot. I spotted HER hubby’s famous Peugeot in the Martinez’s backyard where I hid like a black alley cat. Two packs of Gitanes later the chase went down the ‘Boulevard de la Croisette’. She pushed the poor lil’ Peugeot to the limits. My Facel Vega, stolen from Jule’s 'Phaedra' movie set so Anthony had to drive a DB4 into the ocean to make Melina cry a river, hardly could team up. Finally, neither Paris Match nor LIFE liked my shots. The editors just laughed "Oh little boy, don’t get fooled, Mrs. Columbo has never been seen, and probably never existed, it's just Madame de Papillon." Well, boys, I know better!