I like to tell stories. I consider my whole life one long story that I am continually trying to tell. I also lie a lot. It is just one of those things. It’s not as if I lie because I can’t help it. I lie because the point is that I am telling a story, Truth is completely subjective. If you weren’t there and I was, who are you to tell me what happened and what didn’t? The fact of the matter is that sometimes I can’t even tell whether what I remember really happened, or whether it is just what I think happened. That’s where the pictures fit in. Sometimes I think of them as paintings more than photographs, it helps when I am constructing them, both in my head and in the lens.

These are images that come to mind when I think of the world around me. It is a world filled with angelic characters and visionaries: they are children shaping the world around them as they grow into stretched out versions of children, not yet adults, but biologically shaped as such. They are poets and painters, scholars, photographers, musicians, husbands and fathers, wives, all art. I am an art project, our entire lives are art, or have the possibility to be such. In the early 1900’s existentialists proposed that nothing mattered, and then in the late 1950’s a poet made the claim that if nothing is Holy than everything is Holy and proceeded to shout these things from his podium. With this knowledge I choose to act. The choices we make are all that much more important because there is no expectation to fill, there is only an empty space in front of us and a wolf of history snapping at our heals. All that we are left with are the stories we create and the stories we leave behind. I am thinking ahead. In twenty years you can look back at this story and it will be a good one, whether it is real or not.