A three part book. All photographs are shot on 35mm film.
Form exists everywhere. Look around and it is visible in everything you see. When your eyes signal your brain to stop and take note, you develop taste. Lines & shapes materialize in their own way. You begin to look for things you prefer.Vers une architecture [Towards an Architecture]Le Corbusier"Our eyes are made to see forms in light; light and shade reveal these forms; cubes, cones, spheres, cylinders or pyramids are the great primary forms which light reveals to advantage; the image of these is distinct and tangible within us without ambiguity. It is for this reason that these are beautiful forms, the most beautiful forms. Everybody is agreed to that, the child, the savage and the metaphysician."
Prospect is all about the land. Where I have been, where I go. Until I can travel to space, I will forever explore the land around me. Our planet is special in a way we may never fully grasp.Pale Blue DotCarl Sagan"The Earth is the only world known, so far, to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."
Luxury is being there. Political PoemAmiri Baraka(for Basil)Luxury, then, is a way ofbeing ignorant, comfortablyAn approach to the open marketof least information. Where theoriescan thrive, under heavy tarpaulinswithout being cracked by ideas.(I have not seen the earth for yearsand think now possibly “dirt” isnegative, positive, but clearlysocial. I cannot plant a seed, cannotrecognize the root with clearer dentthan indifference. Though I eatand shit as a natural man ( Getting upfrom the desk to secure a turkey sandwichand answer the phone: the poem undoneundone by my station, by my station, and the bad words of Newark.) Raised upto the breech, we seek to fill for thiscrumbling century. The darkness of love,in whose sweating memory all error is forced.Undone by the logic of any specific death. (Old gentlemenwho still follow fires, tho are quieterand less punctual. It is a polite truthwe are left with. Who are you? What are yousaying? Something to be dealt with, as easily.The noxious game of reason, saying, “No, No, you cannot feel,” like my dead lecturerlamenting thru gipsies his fast suicide.