Stop Making Sense

you (who are so far away and may never be closer) somehow cross the edge of the room or my mind

I’ve read a few different variations of the “moral decline of society” article. The argument that it’s currently happening. But life has always felt frayed at the edges. The last several years have amplified the sentiment. We’re living through an inflection point. Every instance of tragedy is sent to us in 4k via a mini electric dopamine buzz.

We watch collectively as it unfolds in real time on our phones. And the world tears itself apart in the comments section.

Russia, China, Iran and their bot farms light the digital match. Useful idiots pile on.

I’ve been thinking about Paul Fusco’s RFK Funeral Train pictures.

Three days after the 1968 assassination— Robert F Kennedy’s body was carried from NY to DC. For burial at Arlington Cemetery. Mourners spotted the tracks along the way. Their faces slack with grief. Hopelessness. A country stunned.

Fusco was commissioned to photograph the trip from the train. When something unspeakable occurs in the world— I’m reminded of these pictures. I wonder if taken today they’d be as impactful. I wonder if there was the same need to instantly choose a side. Like it’s a sporting event. The need to post a personal press release on every crisis.

The last few weeks have felt especially grim. There is an insurmountable amount to absorb. It takes time to process it all. Which made me think of the BLP lyric, “I get the info like I’m Nardwuar”. The incomparable Canadian music journalist. Finding scarcely known facts about every subject. All of whom exit stage left— smiling. Watch a few. You will too.

Stephen Gill’s The Pillar is a book I look at in moments of distress. Motion sensor cameras photographed birds on a fixed pillar in Sweden. Four years of seasons. The birds always came back.

I imagine Gill retrieving another batch of incredible pictures and smiling in triumph. I couldn’t think of a better gift.

The false idea that the world is on the brink of collapse made me think of the “everyone is breaking up” narrative. The one maybe circulating your orbit right now. Or the frequency at which we hear about people dying. Ones we know— both famous or close to you.

I thought of something my friend Carl Phillips posted.

"But it's always like that, we are what we are not because of the people we've met but because of those we've left. This idea, from Gianfranco Calligarich, has set me spinning”.

I thought about Araki’s Sentimental Journey. A book he made about his wife. And their honeymoon.

And Winter Journey. His documentation of their last few months together. Pictures of Araki’s back and forth to the hospital. She died in 1990. I saw both bodies of work together at ICP this year.

“To The Dead” is a Frank Bidart poem. I couldn’t help but think of the last lines. I close out all my wedding speeches with it. I’ve given many. My interpretation of the ending is positive. There are no rules. These sentences stream in and out of my mind quite often.

The love I’ve known is the love of
two people staring

not at each other, but in the same direction. 

Because together— you see out into the world with a similar sensibility.

When I think about relationships. Love and Loss. A clip of a scene from Listen To Me Marlon floats by me. Sometimes I picture it on a passing car window. Or reflected on a glass skyscraper. I might be walking past.

Maybe I’m more reminded of my own pictures. They’ve always been about finding my way through. Through the setbacks, breakups, regret, career failures. Mistake after mistake. I try to articulate what that might look like in a photograph.

I don’t blame anyone. Only myself. Most of the time— fault does not matter. I try not to get too stuck on that. Let it all wash over me. Brush the disdain off. Start over.

I’ve posted these cream colored shades here before. I come back to them like I do parts of poems, songs, movies. I made the picture in 2013. They represent all the setbacks mentioned. A life I thought I was meant to have. They represent a fresh start.

Today they made me think of April Mood, 1974 by Helen Frankenthaler. If I were in France I’d go to the Fondation Vincent van Gogh in Arles and see it. Where’s it on display.

If you’re in a spiral— rational thought isn’t around. It’s like it went out for a smoke. It’ll come back soon. It may take a minute. I try not to text, call, even look at my phone. Rather just sit with the feeling. And maybe think of this Mike Kelley piece.

In the midst of a crisis, personal or global, our brains feel broken. I usually take long slow walks. In a daze. I thought of an Anna Weyant painting Gagosian showed at Paris+ par Art Basel.

Wish I was there. But I stayed in New York. Because I’m tapering off the steroids. I’ve been on them since May. Miraculously, my body is producing Cortisol again. Small Win.

The Frankenthaler and looking for peace— made me think of this Amadeo Lorenzato painting I saw online. Looks like the view from my room in Spain in June. Like a place I’d want to wait things out. Preferably with someone I love.

Spiraling reminded me of “Stop Making Sense”. I saw it recently. David Byrne doesn’t break character. It’s mesmerizing. Initially I thought— why am I watching a concert in a movie theater? Then “Once In A Lifetime” came on.

“Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.”

It’s true. Terrible things happen. And then we march on. Same as it ever was. Tomorrow another crime against humanity will splash across our phones. We’ll grieve. Turn the comments off this time. And try to make sense of the nonsensical.

There was an outcry on the Right after a Twitch influencer posted about a Playstation give away in Union Square. It was a few months back. Chaos ensued!

Society is at the end! When I saw the headline I immediately turned my head. And saw my Nick Waplington 1986 Surf Riot print hanging in my living room.

It was in Huntington Beach after two planes collided above. Not in protest of anything. Nick was there. Had one roll of film on him. And shot all 24 frames. Little Big Man published it as a book. Long sold out.

There’s another story I often hear. “Everyone is leaving New York”. I thought of a 1985 New York Magazine cover OldNYMag posted.

You might have seen a similar headline after 9/11, the 2008 crash, black out in 2012, Trump. People did leave in 2020. Then came back. Some left again. I remembered a 1970 Shelley Seccombe picture that’s been stuck in my head for years. The raised West Side Highway. Twin Towers in the background.

New York will always be in flux. You can leave. There’s someone waiting to take your apartment. Fill your job. Become a regular at your favorite restaurant.

Whether we want to talk about it or not— there is a post covid hangover. An existential dread. Anyone with a morsel of self reflection has been grappling with it.

I see it in the city. On peoples faces. As they pass by. Fighting their own inner battle. E78th and Fifth Avenue— old man screaming at the clouds. Corner of W14th and 8th. A thirty something, face in her hands. Crying into her iPhone.

The Shelley Seccombe picture and the world being on fire— reminded me of Paul Graham’s The A1 The Great North Road.

For all the people crying into mobiles— there are instances of someone falling in the street. At 5pm. In a busy crosswalk. The mad dash from work. But several people rush over. Help the fallen up. In this kind of moment— I’d think of Jason Polan. He wanted to draw every person in New York. He tried to. Before dying at 37 of cancer in January of 2020. The book is available at Dashwood. Maybe he drew you.

Outside the city— you see it on your personal 3 inch idiot box. Guilty. I’m mainlining mine.

A video of a passenger dragged off a Southwest flight. Always Southwest. Middle aged man in a Subaru threatening to get out of his car— and do something. Always in a Subaru. Or worse, of course. Much worse. You know the videos. I won’t rehash them.

Brian Wilson tweeted, Love and Mercy, after Jimmy Buffett died not too long ago. I thought about Wilson’s life. How he lost a chunk of it to madness. I wanted to hear the 1988 song. I think you should listen to it too. And be easy on yourself.

Cycles, Chaos and California. Makes us want to disassociate. I’ll do it for you. I thought about Downtown LA. Which was and now is again a rough place. But Harry Guyraert’s picture from 1984. The deep orange tinted glass. Soothes like my own red lensed sunglasses.

Reminds me of a painting I saw at LongStoryShort LA by Dani McKenzie. Called, “Text Me When You’re Home”. I like when people call me when they get home.

I saw the Wolfgang Tillman’s show at Zwirner. Thrice. This print made me want to clean out my apartment. I should. The print is massive.

It also felt like a metaphor for an entire life. Encapsulated into one picture.

Thoughts of looking back on a complete existence— brought me back to a fraction of an Alex Dimitrov poem.

and even you
(who are so far away
and may never be closer)
somehow cross the edge 
of the room or my mind.