I just so happened to be taking pictures of nothing when someone stepped in the way. It is streaks of Christina trying to surprise me by flashing past and lifting her shirt for the camera.
Each image is loosely attached to the outside of a box and floats in formation,
seemingly held off the ground by the scratches on the glass you're looking through.
The phantom of sleeping Joy rises at night to haunt the windows of my waking dreams. "What kind of man is this? An empty shell- A lonely cell in which an empty heart must dwell." Sammy Davis, Jr.
Looking up from my Metro and the street, I notice: There's something in this window to look at; is it a coincidence that these images in black and white lit from below with the violet of black lights, and from above by yellow Tungsten floodlights, are the same colors of my jacket?
Anonymous figure walks past... and walks past again, and again. Is he is still walking in that place at that time, is he eternally doing everything he ever did?
Maybe finding joy in art is not about looking at it, maybe it's about being there with joy and looking at yourself?
Is an artists still an artist without an artist's Attitude? Is involuntary artistic self expression a form of Tourette's, or is it all these late nights that are making Misha twitch and spasm?
Is Joy real or just a dream? Ghosting around in a white coat… could this be the astral body of a sleeping Joy frolicking in the black lighty night?