Looking into the lens I ask myself: people spot a big black lens, and they worry about what they’re doing, or how their hair looks. Nobody see the person holding the camera. Photography is the best way, where you can save your sweet past. Life is a journey, photography is the shepherd. Take lots of photos, because you will forget most of what you see when you’re traveling through life. If you choose your subject selectively – intuitively – the camera can write poetry.
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. What about a thousand words from a rambler vs. 500 words from Mark Twain? He could say the same thing quicker and with more force than almost any other writer. It’s wild to declare the equivalency of any picture with any army of 1,000 words. The camera would miss it all. A magnificent picture is never worth a thousand perfect words. A photographer can be a great artist, but he can never be Shakespeare. His tools are too literal. What can be proved by a photograph, can never be by a word. All photos speak a thousand words. Only a few contain a library.
La Bambola Viva’s Smile
I caught the sweetest bird you ever seen. She was young and kind. I took her smile and it was pure. Everybody knows that purity has haste. Life is precious, spring is not forever, and tender blossoms are fragile. That is what Bambola Viva’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.
What Was The Woman Like Before She Was Photographed? What did she look like, how was she different from other women, how was she similar to other women? With the Daguerreotype everyone will be able to have their portrait taken, formerly it was only the prominent, and at the same time everything is being done to make us all look exactly the same, so we shall only need one portrait. But 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.
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.
Never do anything complicated when something simple will serve as well. It’s one of the most important secrets of living. Keep things at arm’s length; if you let anything come too near you want to hold on to it. And there is nothing a man can hold on to.
We were young, and we had just begun to love the world and to love being in it; but we had to shoot it to pieces. We’ve been cut off from real action, from getting on, from progress. We don’t believe in those things any more; we believe in the war. 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.
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.
Silk Scarf Coming
Très chic. I am planning on buying 20 Porsches 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.
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!
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.