There’s a man who works at the
local store who takes photographs with his eyes. He moves his eyelids like they
are garage doors. He will look you straight in the face while talking and take
at least three or four shots. He can’t help it.
Another person once told me a way to remember to do a task, laid out in the physical world before you, is to stop, face the potential activity in question and blink at it as if you were a living camera. Just stand there in front of a wall that needs to be painted or a machine that needs to be fixed and blink. Try it, they said. I was assured to always remember to do the job, even if I did many others before, because there was a photograph of an unpainted wall or a broken machine in my head, taken only with my eyes.
Another person once told me a way to remember to do a task, laid out in the physical world before you, is to stop, face the potential activity in question and blink at it as if you were a living camera. Just stand there in front of a wall that needs to be painted or a machine that needs to be fixed and blink. Try it, they said. I was assured to always remember to do the job, even if I did many others before, because there was a photograph of an unpainted wall or a broken machine in my head, taken only with my eyes.
My photographs are made with a
little black box that catches the light. I’m not skilled or disciplined enough to use my body. I need
an object between the world and me. Most of the time there's an overflow of misremembered memories and undeveloped futures, so I need
that box to pull me out of those images and back into what is in front of the
camera. Then I take a photograph.
