B/c it is seems to fit the pattern of how everything is here right now: palpable disconnect. It’s terrible in many ways…maddening actually. When I watch people on the street, on the subway, sitting on the park benches, driving their cars, living life, following the traced lines that seem to have been set out long before them, when I watch this it makes no sense; they’re all unfinished; they’re fragmented outlines that were never put in order. It’s as though a fog has settled over that which is usually inferred, that which is usually taken for granted. I don’t know when one plus one didn’t equal two anymore, but I’m not confident it does. It’s like we’re on a deep superlative bender, but without the feeling good, just the psychological tremors and quakes and underpinnings of disaster…this could be a matter of projecting…but I don’t think so. I’m not getting this across very clearly, am I? But, listen, it’s has me worried. Even these simple little pictures, this record of someday what was, seem to have become slippery, so to speak, as if they’re without reason. My only reaction is resistance, a push to take them out to some other limit. B/c sometimes they’re all I can hold onto. The continued study of a ____, at whichever end of the spectrum it exists. You’d think it would exist at some end, right? That it’s a sort of maximum. Doesn’t strike me as something that would be subtle.

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008

photo: © Graeme Mitchell 2008