To Photograph A Bird’s Portrait
First photograph a cage. With an open door. Then photograph something pretty. Something simple, something beautiful, something useful for the bird. Then place the camera on a tripod. In a garden, in a wood, or in a forest. Hide behind the camera, without speaking, without moving. Sometimes the bird comes quickly. But it can just as well spend long years before deciding. Don’t get discouraged. Wait. Wait years if necessary. The swiftness or slowness of the coming of the bird having no rapport with the success of the picture.
When the bird comes, if it comes, observe the most profound silence. Wait till the bird enters the cage. And when it has entered, gently close the door. Then retouch out all the bars, one by one, taking care not to touch any of the feathers of the bird. Then photograph a tree, choosing the most beautiful of its branches for the bird. 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 bird to decide to sing. If the bird doesn’t sing, it’s a bad sign. A sign that the photograph is bad. But if it sings it’s a good sign. A sign that you can sign. So then so very gently you pull out one of the feathers of the bird and you write your name in a corner of the picture.
Mona Elisa’s Smile
I am on the road to find out what moves me in life. Someone wrote about how to do a bird’s portrait and that one has to wait and not to get discouraged while waiting. I set up the cage. And I waited. It had to be perfect. I wanted the essential, nothing more.
I caught my bird. The sweetest bird you ever seen. A blossom. She was young and kind. I took her smile and it was pure. Everybody knows that purity has haste. Didn’t you know that? I must go, ‘cause life is precious, spring is not forever, and tender blossoms are fragile. That is what Mona Elisa’s smile brought to within me. Now when I remember spring, and every lovely thing, I will be remembering, the shadow of her smile, her lovely smile.
4 Children For Sale
As a filmmaker you have 25 frames a second and several minutes, or hours, to tell a story. As a photographer you have one single frame only. A photographer can’t write a dialogue. No talking actors. You have to trust the image to tell the story.
This photograph is the remake of a famous historical photo that made its way into newspapers in 1948. Redone in 2013 to put focus on the tragic case again ’cause things hadn’t changed very much. Human trafficking is still around in many countries and still numerous children are sold throughout the world. Many of them abused by child labor and child slavery. Not to mention sexual abuse and child prostitution.
The inside of the old Lincoln smelled like asphalt and desire, gasoline and dreams. There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous.
Three o’clock in the morning. The highway is empty, under a malignant moon. The oil drippings make the roadway gleam like a blue-satin ribbon. The night is still but for a humming noise coming up somewhere behind a rise of ground. Two other, fiercer, whiter moons, set close together, suddenly top the rise, shoot a fan of blinding platinum far down ahead of them. Headlights. The humming burgeons into a roar. The touring car is going so fast it sways from side to side. The road is straight. The way is long. The night is short. Film Noir.
First impressions can be wrong. So let me clear what’s going on! I’m not who you think I am. I need to feel some lips on mine. So pulling you across the line! You think I’m the fragile one? One slip, the damage done! I’m not made of china, I’m not made of glass. Would it shatter your illusions if this angel had a past? If you want my future – forget my past!
Don’t wrap me up in cotton wool. Upon a pedestal. If you touch me I won’t break. Don’t think of me that way. I’m not such an innocent girl! I’ve got a secret rose tattoo. I’m dying just to show you. I’m not as shy as you think I am, oh baby! Don’t be scared you’ll break my heart. Not gonna fall apart!
This is metaphorical story of a seven years old, who is stationed as a young serviceman at a ‘Mobile Army Service Hospital’ (MASH) during wartimes. A hospital alone shows what war is. For this reason he raises questions over the war and child labor.
For whom the hammer tolls. All Quiet on the Western Front? It’s only terrible to have nothing to wait for. It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. I want to think and at the same time that’s the last thing in the world I want to do. We are not youth any longer. We’re no longer young men. We’ve lost any desire to conquer the world. We don’t want to take the world by storm. We are refugees. We are fleeing. We are fleeing from ourselves. From our lives. We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial – I believe we are lost. To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory.
The automobile has become our national sex symbol. As a result of which the woman has become cold and and undersexed; she has projected her libido on to the automobile. So in order to capture and master anything at all of her anymore man has got to make that car his own. Though he must he will not only own one but renew it each year in pristine virginity.
So we have to divorce our wife today in order to remove from our mistress the odium of mistress in order to divorce our wife tomorrow in order to remove from our mistress and so on, lending it to no one, letting no other hand ever know the last secret forever chaste forever wanton intimacy of its pedals and levers, having nowhere to go in it himself and even if he did he would not go where scratch or blemish might deface it, spending all Sunday morning washing and polishing and waxing it because in doing that he is caressing the body of the woman who has long since now denied him her bed.
Silk Scarf Coming
Très chic. I am planning on buying 20 Porsche’s and crashing them all just for the extravagance! Ohhh, je suis très désolé! You don’t need a perfect body or designer clothes to score a date. All you need is a smile and an actual life of your own.
Function and beauty are inseparable. Beauty as an end in itself is out of place in a female’s fashion style. If a body styling detail is to be really satisfactory from an aesthetic point of view, it must be functionally justified. This holds true for any woman. Vice versa, a female’s coachwork should not only be functional, but should also have a beautiful appearance. Independence has always been my attitude. And because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. To do, not what is expected, but what I feel is right.
Fishing With A Dotted Line
The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if they had never been.
There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought, to call it by a prouder name than it deserved, had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until – you know the little tug – the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out. Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.
Miss Nice Saxing America
I’ve been out on that open road. Singing in the old bars. Swinging with the old cars. That’s the way the road dogs do it, ride ’til dark. That’s the way I make my life an art. Playing, hot or cold, saxing blues has been getting old. I’ve been traveling too long. I’ve been trying too hard, with one pretty song.
I spent my whole life driving in cars with boys, riding around town, drinking in the white noise. I spent my whole life wasted in bars, playing Rock ‘n’ Roll, dancing in the loud noise. I wear my red lipstick, I grab my coat, I grab my sax. Let’s ride. I can escape to the great sunshine, make it out to the other side. Drugs, suck it up like Vanilla Ice-ys, treat me really nice-ys. I was born to live fast, die young. Live my life on the run. Oh, my God, I feel it in the air. I’m on fire, I feel it everywhere, wonder if this is it, it’s darkest before dawn. I fall asleep in an American flag. I’m Miss America now, I’m gone. I’m Miss America, now I’m free.