It is a window and a mirror, as dark as the sins it conceals. A trading post, for souls that is. It shows the vacancy of the minds of those who are lost; the neat exchange of a soul for a lead role in the cage. The photograph evokes a sense of loneliness and therefore true freedom, and if it had to emit a sound, it would be the song of the wind that blows through these places. The winds can howl, or gently whisper but remain unheard to those who choose to disconnect and exist in this fantastic reality but do you think they can tell that smile from a veil? Can you? To make sense of it, to be safe you must tame a photograph like you must tame wild women because then they will comfortably fit in this ever-shrinking world of manipulated thought and expectation, but what if instead of taming it, you let it tell a thousand stories that it contains? Of course, doing this comes at a cost. Be warned. You would have to taste its wildness through your own imagination. For me, I love its irony. Photographs steal time yet this subject is timeless, it is just like a thief stealing from the thief. ~ Kalahari

It is never too late to have a happy childhood but 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. Grown-ups are an untrustworthy, treacherous lot, they do not take their games in the serious wholehearted way children do, and yet they too have their own games, one more serious than the other, one game inside another, so that it is almost impossible to discover what the real one is. As for children, they must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies - and each particular discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. It was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they would have no heart to start at all.

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

First photograph a car. With an open door. Then place the camera on a tripod. Hide behind the camera, without speaking, without moving. Sometimes the girl comes quickly but she can just as well spend long years before deciding. Don't get discouraged. Wait. The swiftness or slowness of the coming of the girl having no rapport with the success of the picture. When the girl comes, if she comes, observe the most profound silence. Wait till the girl enters the car. And when she has entered, gently close the door. Then photograph something pretty, something simple, something beautiful, something useful for the girl. Photograph the portraiture of a garden, choosing the most beautiful of its flowers for the girl. Photograph also the green foliage and the wind's freshness, the dust of the sun and the noise of insects in the summer heat. And then wait for the girl to decide to smile. If she doesn't smile, it's a bad sign. A sign that the photograph is bad. But if she smiles it's a good sign; a sign that you can sign. So then you snip off one of the girl's ringlets to brush your name in the corner of her portraiture.

The Farmer's daughters watched in the morning rain. The prettiest, shyest one hid far back in the field to watch and she had good reason because she was absolutely and finally the most beautiful girl. She was about sixteen and had a plain complexion like wild roses, and the bluest eyes, the most lovely hair, and the modesty and quickness of a wild antelope. At every look, she flinched. She stood there with the immense winds that blew clear down from Saskatchewan knocking her hair about her lovely head like shrouds, living curls of them. She blushed and blushed. Oh, a girl like that scares me, and I'd give up everything and throw myself on her mercy and if she didn't want me I'd just as simply go and throw myself off the edge of the world. It's okay, girl, we'll make it till the sun goes down forever. And until then what you got to lose but the losing? We're fallen angels who didn't believe that nothing means nothing. We are nothing. Tomorrow we may be dying. We are nothing, you and me.

Not a soul in the world could be in despair when glancing at the fabulous stage des Folies Bergère. It is the locus of nocturnal pleasures drawing the artists, the men, whose masculinity filters through to the performers on the thick curling smoke of their cigars. The theater is smoldering, and backstage this season's guests, the American Ziegfeld 'Line Dancers' are warming up supple, nimble limbs. With much laughter, the women anticipate the enticement, excitement and jazzed-up fun that they command with their infinite, boot-clad legs showcased by the black silk stockings. Plush red skirts are expertly used to provoke the men, stir them into a feeding frenzy. Madame Suzon, Manet's favorite Folie, walks through the disarray of undergarments, perfume, costumes and partially naked girls, receiving sultry smiles as she passes. Women share the sensuality, fuel it, feed it. They prepare to deliver the promised experiences, tastes and flavors of the upcoming night. The penetrating bass sounds of the orchestra work them up to the point that as Offenbach beats they synchronize, dance, scream with a passion that elevates Orpheus' lover from the Underworld on his behalf. Yes! They all can dance the 'Can-Can' in Picasso's 'Jardin de Paris' but not Madame Suzon. She is the vendor of drinks and love and passion and she is the perfect illusionist. She removes her clothing and so slowly loses herself as she slips into the professional persona of the star of the Folies. Her corset tight - tighter - for she is the quintessential personification of Andy Warhol's shapely designed Coke bottle and she eyes the British 'Big Cat Jag' that just drove in. She smiles knowing she won't be denied because she is to the Folies Bergère like Polaroid is to color. And hers is the original taste! ~ Kalahari

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 do not hurt quite as much. Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt them. No woman deserves to wear these shoes. And yet, because of these shoes, I am a stronger woman. These shoes gave me the strength to face anything. These shoes, they made me who I am.

Ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. No glamor ever transfigures them. One can always find them, obtainable everywhere, at all times. No mystery is in any of them. They show their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. She takes a drive today, time to emancipate. From her handbag, she takes a round gilt compact with violets on the cover. She opens it, unclosing her other self, and runs her fingertip around the corners of her mouth, left one, right one; then she swivels a pink stick and dots her cheeks and blends them, changing her shape, performing magic to herself. Pink on the cheeks; black discreetly around the eyes, as red as blood as black as ebony, a seamed and folded imitation of a magazine picture that is itself an imitation of a woman who is also an imitation, the original nowhere, a captive princess in someone's head. Even an immaculately crafted porcelain doll could not have been as lovely. Beauty is given to dolls and majesty to haughty vixens but mind and feeling and the crowning grace of fortitude are the attributes of an angel.