Out of the Vault and Across the Bridge
This one’s from the vault.
I made this print when I was 13 and just getting interested in photography… back when I was using the real tangible stuff. To say I was rough with my negatives would be an understatement. I sliced them up and scratched designs into the emulsion. I left dust (the arch-nemesis of photographers and housewives alike) where it lay.
Despite this betrayal of the medium’s integrity, I felt no remorse as I navigated a summer of experimentation. At that age, unacquainted with failure and brimming with a confidence inflated by chemical fumes in a light-tight room, I became a serial surrealist.
Who are these children split down the middle? If you were to shrink down and travel across their faces, you would be met with a fracture on nearly every plane – an abyss that would keep you searching and hopeless for miles, ever the stranger in a strange land. Eventually, though, you would reach the nose. That vast mountain of common ground. “How could I have missed this?” you’d say out loud (to no one in particular) and you’d proceed to carve “__________ WUZ HERE” into the ground before walking across the bridge.