So when we kiss, lets keep in mind, the flesh is rotting all the time.
The poesy of nudes on the club toilets in Berlin.
I asked different stranger if I could photograph them naked on the toilet, with or without face was up to them, also how much they were willing to show.
I remember that my mother would open the door to my room so I could hear them talk while I was lying in bed. I can still walk through the door of my room and climb up onto the window casement. I climb, because in memory I am as tall as I was then. Below I can see the courtyard at night, detect the lines of the paving bricks and the blackness of the bushes. When I take this walk, the apartment is always empty. I move through it like a phantom, and I have began to wonder what actually happens in our brains when we return to half remebered places. What is a memory perspectiv?
Siri Husvedt, What I loved