Making love to the dark words of Voltaire, if you fear dying, then death has already taken you. Scarlet bones and scarlet lovers, we have taken over a studio in the James Hotel. It is much less planned than it sounds. The moon hangs above, peers through the window and glares at our motives. Glowing dark in spirited ceremony, She wore a bodysuit of white soaked skin-tight from the rain. Barefoot and eerie, like the lover letters that remain. He wrote of touching her skin. He wrote of her scarlet blood lips and how nothing will ever be as deep a shade. Their love crossed many midnights and was spoken of over candle light. They say, they still walk the halls of the hotel together.
A haunting collection of polaroids, from my book:
milk and bones
coming November 2010