36 degrees at dusk in an old Caïro bar where the locals have a (secret) beer and the overhead fans do nothing but move cigarette smoke around. the waiter scowls at everyone, but gossips like his life depends on it. I’m reading Cavafy. I’m making pictures. I couldn’t be happier.
‘If photography transcends language, then the self-portrait must be its most sacred utterance, and, perhaps, the hotel room can be its chapel for the night.’ — I wrote about the poetics of place & self-portraiture
I like looking up songs on YouTube lately. People often leave their own little stories of love & loss in the comments. Underneath the Paris, Texas soundtrack is this one – an echo of a slide guitar & of time passing 🤍
on a forgotten 35mm roll at the bottom of a bag and after dozens of trips through x-rays machines around the world, this little greek flower emerges from the silver halide emulsion – light-streaked, dense with grain & all the more precious for it
I like looking up songs on YouTube lately. People often leave their own little stories of love & loss in the comments. Underneath the Paris, Texas soundtrack is this one – an echo of a slide guitar & of time passing 🤍
Voice like a cathedral. Lyrics like a midnight walk in the rain. His songs took you by your hand through love & loss and never let you go again. Brel & Bowie & bright beauty in the beast of darkness. Thanks for saving my heart,
#ScottWalker
, travel on well x