Recently, it was brought to my attention by a friend that I’ve been taking pictures for a long fucking time. Not necessarily good pictures, but pictures nonetheless. Several stuffed-to-the-top plastic bins in my basement and countless zips, USBs, CDs, and parts of at least 3 different hard drives led me to this conclusion: what I do with a camera isn’t really art, but rather mindless obsessive-compulsive documentation.
Sometimes you’ve been pounding beers for several hours at a small town street dance and all you can see for miles and miles (or at least the square block radius in which the street dance is contained) are white people acting out in a way that made you smile for the first few hours but has now left you thinking you just might die if you have to answer one more question about your t-shirt, when you realize there must be a god after all because a ray of sunlight from heaven just glimmered somewhere in your peripheral and you’re like “Hey, I’m really sorry to do this, but I just, like, need to, like, go over there. I’m sure one of the other guys wearing a t-shirt just like mine can answer your question, but I, like, really, really need to, like, go over there and talk to those girls.”
So for five minutes, until their meth-smoking townie boyfriends pick them up in a rusty Camaro, they let a quirky dude, who acts like they were sent from heaven to save his life, and his goofy hippy friend take pictures of them.
Do you think they ever wondered what would happen with those photos? Do you think they thought they would end up sitting in a plastic bin in the quirky guy’s basement for ten years and then end up on the internet? Who knows? And who knows what ever happened to these two. They are probably 26-28 yrs old now. I can only hope they are having the time of their lives; as they should be. Anything else would be a shame.
Staples, MN, Summer '00.