the curtained cot of childhood

I don’t remember dreaming, only waking to a thin line of pink light slicing across the horizon. Then rising, pacing the long hallway in pre-dawn shadow.

I keep hitting walls. Not knowing what is next. The problem: I look at these photographs, describe what I see. There is something I am missing. The story of a young woman. To represent the body of a young woman without doing further violence. Without laying her bare. And yet here we are, the problem of the woman’s body, offered up.

The spectacle: Beyond one life or another. Beyond the logic of the factual. These photographs: their arresting stillness. Experiment: throw a wooden spool across the curtained cot of childhood. This is a way to anticipate loss.


Of herself as subject, she said: I am always available.

Of herself as subject, she said: I am as tired of seeing myself as you are of looking at me.

Was it Barthes who asked: What is life after all, but apprenticeship in dying.


and flesh is not machine         and the body is not reproducible         

and the dream of endless reproduction        endless return

is not possible        to see face to face the limits of this human

moment        to stare at it        to blur the frame        a hand

in motion        a photo booth spits out the same image again         

and again         our uncomfortable truce        with machines