I spent the month of February in Iceland as part of the NES Artist Residency, where I worked in a little café by the Arctic sea in the town of Skagaströnd, population 498. There was no snow when I arrived because we’ve ruined the Gulf Stream—but there was an endless twilight that saturated the red rooftops, […]
The graffiti splashed across the buildings next to the Agora felt appropriate now that our sacred institutions have become obscene and profane cries of resistance sound absolutely spiritual.
An ongoing series dedicated to the beauty of the midnight interstate, the pump islands and motor lodges glowing on the horizon like sanctuaries from the chaos of the three o’clock in the morning mind.
Scenes from the white spaces on the American map—the mythic geography of junkyards, ghost towns, forgotten cars, and furniture by the side of county roads.
A photo-essay from the first week spent with my father at the Veterans Hospital in Wisconsin, where we would wait nine months for a lung.
Welcome to Two Guns, Arizona. Dig these crumbling buildings and read the writing on the walls. Near the old lion cage, a tidy and compact cursive script says You did this to us. This is America muttering to herself in the kitchen before stumbling off to bed.
A photo-essay about Slab City, an off-grid community in the lower lefthand corner of America with a name that sounds like the stuff of underground pulp and purple noir.
Krewe du Vieux taught me about the heat of crowds and the barriers that crumble when everybody crams together in the streets to play dress-up with a backbeat.