Death Being Worse Than Sex

A young man came into my office a couple days ago where I have two of my more modest prints framed and leaning against the wall.  He had a faux-hawk and a leather jacket and a hard stare, and he was in need of something I could help him with.  He looked at the photos.

"What are those supposed to represent?"

"When I took them. . ."

"You took those?"

I looked at him funny.

". . . I was trying to express. . . you know. . . the existential feeling of the fragile individual in a hostile universe. . . ."  I was kind of fucking with him.

"That's what I thought.  How much would you sell one of those for?"

In the end, I was able to help him.  He helped me, too.

But oh. . . I loved the photo in this post right away.  And I have only a few boxes of the Polaroid 669 left.  In a panic, I just bought a couple more boxes off eBay.  Who knows if that will be any good at all.  But if you saw this image as it came from the camera--only greens and cyans--well, I've learned much about working with a film that is no longer made.  Why me?

But some good news.  I called the fellow making Frankencamera yesterday and took up his offer to lend me his until mine is finished.  It should be here by the end of the week.  So even though it won't be mine, I'll be able to begin working with one over the holidays.  The bad news is that I will feel the need to produce.  I'm already having performance anxiety.

Q gives a report today on his trip to the SFMoMA to see the Francesca Woodman exhibit.  You can read his reaction here.  Just before reading his blog, I read an article about Nick Nolte who says that you are old when you think about death more than you think about sex.  Woodman, I imagine by that account, was old though she was young.  In the article, Nolte said that Katherine Hepburn told him that getting old was just boring.  If I'd lived as a Hollywood star in that era, I'm certain I would think so, too.