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Television in the 1960s & 70s had just as much dross and the programmes were a lot more tediously patronising than they are now. Memory truncates occasional gems into a glittering skein of brilliance. More television, more channels means more good television and, of course, more bad. The same equation applies to publishing, film and, I expect, sumo wrestling.
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It's hard to say what I want my legacy to be when I'm long gone.
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What is the subject matter of this apparently very personal world? It has been suggested that these shapes and images are underworld characters, the inhabitants of the vast common realm of memories that have gone down below the level of conscious control. It may be they are. The degree of emotional involvement and the amount of free association with the material being photographed would point in that direction.
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We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.
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Our memories, they can be inviting. But some are altogether, mighty frightening.
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Nothing stands still, except in our memory.
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Always trust strangers, it's the people you know that let you down.
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I do have insecurities. I don't know if you can tell. I'm not brimming with confidence.
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I know that I reached a point where I wasn't going to let the nonsense happening before me slide anymore.
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Nothing is more beautiful than to know all.
