I had this conversation with a friend of mine just the other day.
I use to love so many of those literary outlaws – Buroughs, Jean Genet, Jim Carroll, Bukowski, James Joyce. Djuna Barnes. Luis Bunuel.
My sophomore year of college, I staged a music performance in a junkyard in the outskirts of Colorado Springs, CO.
For the performance, together with some friends, we sat in a circle holding hands around a portable tape player, with a cassette playing a recording of William Burroughs reading an excerpt from Place of Dead Roads.
When the recording was over, we all found objects in the junkyard and used them as percussion instruments. To make music. We beat rusted pieces of metal together for about an hour.
I suppose this idea of an outlaw still resonants with me.
A number of year ago, I made a series of photographs of books, and within this series, I photographed a few biographies of artists that meant a great deal to me. As a way of explaining myself.
Chill of empty space, Kim gathers wood for a fire.