My camera's still broken. Just regurgitating shit off the web that i find interesting.
A shot that makes we think about friendship and freedom, and one that makes me think about money and politics.
A shot that makes we think about friendship and freedom, and one that makes me think about money and politics.
Cover of a recent vanity fair cover. Check out all the gear...
nma: [ 2007-07-21 ]biting alec soth's blog...that is about as annoying as "celebrity" photography gets.
ant: [ 2007-07-27 ]what about your avedon shot that was on here 2 weeks prior...?
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my camera is now broken. hence the lack of new content.
new camera and new adventures soon. all i've been doing is coaching at summer camp so that's not that interesting anyway.
new camera and new adventures soon. all i've been doing is coaching at summer camp so that's not that interesting anyway.
DONT FORGET IT.
Ants,
Sucks about the camera..sorry for you. Don't downplay what you do...tell a story...anything coming from that hole in your face is interesting! Lates.
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2007 07 17 : SELDIN |  |
JORDAN SELDIN IS THE NEW BLOC PARTY.
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2007 07 13 : newish | |
PURPLE IS THE NEW BLACK.
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Salman Rushdie. From 'The Satanic Verses.
Good reading. 2 quotes. Imagine reading on this short attention spanned interwaste.
Any new idea, Mahound, is asked two questions.
The first is asked when it’s weak:
WHAT KIND OF AN IDEA ARE YOU?
Are you the kind that compromises, does deals, accommodates itself to society, aims to find a niche, to survive;
or are you the cursed, bloody-minded ramrod-backed type of damnfool notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze?
- the kind that will almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, be smashed to bits;
but the hundredth time, will change the world?
What’s the second question? Gibreel asked.
Answer the first one first.
One more....
When Mr Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival , his and Gibreel’s, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure , and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind, in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel, except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside, holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel Farishta by the balls.
Good reading. 2 quotes. Imagine reading on this short attention spanned interwaste.
Any new idea, Mahound, is asked two questions.
The first is asked when it’s weak:
WHAT KIND OF AN IDEA ARE YOU?
Are you the kind that compromises, does deals, accommodates itself to society, aims to find a niche, to survive;
or are you the cursed, bloody-minded ramrod-backed type of damnfool notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze?
- the kind that will almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, be smashed to bits;
but the hundredth time, will change the world?
What’s the second question? Gibreel asked.
Answer the first one first.
One more....
When Mr Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival , his and Gibreel’s, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure , and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind, in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel, except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside, holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel Farishta by the balls.
We conform because we are afraid of the unknown
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