ON LOOTING AND PRESERVING: May 2012

31 May 2012

29 May 2012

the only thing that matters about this photo is that it was taken a few hours before seeing beyoncé knowles in atlantic city. i can't. i just can't. i can't even write about it. i leave you with watermelon. just know i popped an eardrum and if i could be for ONE second a young gay man, actually, no, no, let me just be myself and say that when B was making 'billsbillsbills' i was on my way to vassar. so in a way YES, I MOTHERfucking do think we grew up together. sue me.

25 May 2012

© wayne liu

bobby d

23 May 2012

solemn happy birthday note, pero con amor (21 de Mayo)

at the same time that pop was taking self portrait with sad eyes, he was also taking a photo of me with flared nostrils and oversized sweatshirt. i had no idea what it meant to be, then, an immigrant traveling or maybe living, staying and trying out, experiencing, whatever, another country and its culture. obviously i didn't have to because my job was to be 7, and learn how to read, etc., and to not sense these things was my privilege. i sometimes see pop's trajectory as that of a world tour, but one cannot tour their life, one must live it and in it, and make it, also. it is inevitable that various characters and people become involved in your world tour and their trajectory becomes wrapped up in yours, too, and then you are no longer 24, and the tropics are far behind you, and your Mother becomes a touchstone reachable on sundays by phone and in the fine ink lines of her thorough letters from home. i do not purport to know what it is like to be a man, or a father struggling with all the vices and vexes of love, family, and work in a country not your own, for your children to not know the corners you used to stand on and the streets you used to navigate, nor the friends you've had or the colors that painted you, and i do not think it is easy to work through your demons even as a mature individual, as those demons of all of ours are never 'left' nor left 'behind' - they very much travel with us; an invisible chest of drawers accessible whenever we are feeling curious, or brave. answers do not present themselves, are not found, or arrived at. we all know they are part and parcel of who we are wherever we are. these thoughts have to do with character, with my Father's character, with being one's own person, being one's self and being WITH oneself under whatever sun in whatever light. we move forward but that is to say nothing of the planets we are, ourselves. when the liquor dries up, the kids grow up, and the girlfriends all blend into one composite portrait of unspeakable youth and beauty, we begin to get at ourselves and it is here i feel my Father. i do not say i know him, entirely, because my frame of reference is one fraught with absolute love and absolute absence, but when the inevitable black cloud fluffs up over the english countryside and the rains begin to come as they do every few weeks, i feel him as a human, not as a daughter. i feel him when certain types wrongly identify these weather patterns as dark. when others assume these rains to mean they are in danger, when in fact rain is almost always about cleansing, about passing, about release - and they always open up to a new type of sky.

one of the things i miss most about colombia is how a lot of patios in houses have no roof directly over them. this part of the roof is missing from what would be a living room, so to speak. in this way, one could sit in a chair or pass across the patio from the bathroom to the kitchen with the sky visible from inside. one could nap blissfully while outside their door rain falls heavily onto the smooth tile of the patio and into the thick leaves of the potted plants. one is both inside and out, and the skies clear up as fast as it all fell. there is a definite sadness in looking backwards, but the impetus to look forward, instead, should keep one proud. in my estimation, it is the more powerful gaze.

happy birthday, guapo

22 May 2012

Letter from Akeem (Rehabilitation through Photography Class)

akeem has a beautiful caribbean accent and million-watt smile, made even more brilliant by his two rows of braces. i haven't spoken much about the young adults i've been working with at 'rehabilitation through photography' because i kind of want to keep their brilliance, observations, and way of being to myself. these young adults are all on the autism scale, autists, if you will, but if when you say that, you hear "arrrtists" in a snooty english accent, then that's more like it. auuuutists. it ranges. life is turned on its side. smiles don't mean happy, necessarily, in this world. sayings hold no value, eye contact is often vapid. rules may not apply, anger is just the delivery method. answers are guesses, never answers. questions are sincere, and vanity, self-consciousness, and fear are all traits we buffoons have created and decided to live with. last tuesday, before i hit my head on the microphone in front of several hundred wealthy new yorkers, akeem and joseph read their surprisingly calm and collected speeches aloud in their distinct speaking voices. they were, of course, confident about speaking in front of a room full of strangers. during my 'speech,' i proclaimed our final edit an avant garde success! and if anyone would like to discuss our choices, to please find us after the meal. royce's work represented a mechanical but colorful and loose shooter. we made a diptych of an out-of-focus pile of pickles next to a scale at katz's, along with a bunch of lights that were for some reason always in the shape of circles. royce has a handsome smile, and he knows the word, too, because when you tell him he's a handsome boy you can see the fireworks inside of him go off. gabe, a young man who does as his parents do, was very proud of his work. it's a shame that i haven't seen him since january, but i was glad he showed. his most telling piece is the full moon from november 13th, 2011, as seen from the highline - a huge yellow ball taking up about 5% of the black frame, next to a cotton-ball-cloud, shaped just like popcorn, up close against clear digi blue skies. he let me take a photo of him in front of his work, then went back to his iPad. gabe is the type of boy who benefits from a few trusted women in his life. i got that the night there were too many cooks in the kitchen, and he, overwhelmed, told the executive director of the program, a kind, white-haired gentleman, to "fuck off," followed by disdain and declared to the rest of the room, "do you hear how he's talking to me?!"- and then i thought, what boy in my classes growing up wouldn't have LOVED to have had the balls to say that to a principal! any of our principals! our fucking 8th grade history teacher, whatever!@ this boy has those balls, but he doesn't know it.
the whole night was a surprise. i was so happy walking home. and on the train i was still happy. they are always happy, though...and when i realize this i am always left without words. it is a simpler way of interacting with the world, but it isn't, either. the next morning i recalled the night's events to my favorite m-train passenger; my voice was raspy. i didn't know if was too much information, but i went with it, because jesus, do you know how beautiful and how wealthy we really are????????

la novia, my great friend

happy birthday dearest friend! bright spark, strong heart, loyal coat...un beso. 20 de Mayo.

15 May 2012

my main mane

i have often said that i am not a morning person. that is just not true. of course when one wakes up happy next to whomever, male or female, you become a fucking morning person right quick. i am usually a better person in the company of people for whom i want to shine and in general, in the company of good people, best friends, or guests that i know will be short lived.

fake real things

2 of these 4 for Breeze, a new resident of San Pancho, Califas

Some of us suck at the phone. Here's to the 1 of us who is not me for whom that statement might relate :-) smiley face emoticon. Two of these four are for Breezo, an Englishman in San Francisco. What does an Englishman do in San Pancho? Does he look up Paul Fusco? Does he walk down Geary Street? Does he step over crack viles in the Tenderloin? Does he bask in Dolores Park? How many streets in SF did I leave unexplored? (Answer: 2). Do we meet in the outerspace space of overlapping time? Does he feel the same way about Lilac and LaPidge Streets as I do? What about Capp? Harrison? Chavez? Fillmore? Stanyan? Maiden Lane? Potrero? Guerrero? Valencia? Alabama? Does he find the illest noodle spot without any assistance? Does he tan to the overcast grey fog of mostly every morning of every day? Does he find 24th Street and meet my spirit there? I hope so. So many questions. One of the United States' huger problems is the distance between California and New York, and the amber waves of grain that separate it.