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Hollow-Holler
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April 07, 2010 - 9:19
A black porous cloth is obscuring the face at arm's length, illuminated underneath by a yellow bulb- leaking through is only the amount of light necessary to see. The cloth becomes contorted every now and then by the hands, clumsy and convulsive from sheer nervous anger. Face crumpled, clenched in complement to them.
This periodic upset of the cloth allows a surge of bare garish light over the selvage, which, simply, my eyes won't suffer.
Too direct, too manifest.
A pinhole please, no periphery.
An accidental, incidental vignette, capturing in plain metaphor the state of my life in the last near year.
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