There is a place I go mentally in between projects; it is a place of escapism and guttural hope. In this place of mixed emotions I often observe characters too wild or cunning for me to capture. So I observe. The figure I know only as "the boxer" - pictured above - is one such character. On a bitter winter day of ice and wind and brittle nerves I saw him. The boxer was warm lying there, surrounded by putrid trash. It was the warmth of a body ripe for death. When he died I watched as his soul, a molten fever dream of vengeful strength, floated into the bitter night air. His was the soul of a fighter. As he faded into the gilded skies of memory, I noticed his eyes. The boxer had none.
See you next Year!
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