Ten Photographs Like Ten Fingers in a Wall Socket
Picture this: you’re doom-scrolling with all the grace of a hamster on a squeaky wheel, convinced you’re alive because the screen spits back something vaguely human.
You’re welcome—I dropped ten photographs this week. Ten neat little detonations. Ten plastic knives that still manage to cut.
They’re merciless shots: skin too close to lie, neon dripping like toxic syrup over faces OD’ing on pixels. Yes, there’s no self-portrait. Don’t worry—I embedded the instructions for using your disgust right in the metadata.
These images talk about us. About how we carve up time with thumbs, mistake likes for friendship, and house-train loneliness with filters. Look at them: they’ll show you exactly what you’re afraid you are. If you feel nothing, congrats—the anesthetic is working.
I spent the year stalking subjects that didn’t want saving: billboards halfway between prayer and product placement, 4 a.m. windows lit up like coin-operated confessionals, hands gripping phones with the devotion our grandparents reserved for rosaries. I shot agony in hi-def because truth in low-res doesn’t hurt anyone anymore.
So here they are: ten pieces of evidence. Hang them in the living room, loop them on a screen, tattoo them on the cat. All I want is for them to bite—just once—hard enough to remind you art isn’t an analgesic. It’s a gorgeous punch to the gut. And today the first hit’s on me. You’ll settle the tab tomorrow when you wake up still stuck being you.
Enjoy the view.