Snapshots from the first week spent with my father at the Veterans Hospital where we would wait nine months for a lung.
People in other countries take hostages for political reasons. Americans do it for real estate.
“If she goes pulling off her clothes and throwin’ them in the air like she did in Boston, there’s gonna be somebody getting a ride in the paddy wagon.”
Near the old lion cage, a tidy cursive script says You did this to us. This is America muttering to itself in the kitchen before stumbling off to bed.
A dusty ballad plays in a grand old ballroom filled with tailored men and elaborate hairdos.
Throughout the United States, you’ll find shoes dangling from power lines, utility cables, and trees.
Nobody could smoke a cigarette like Linda Darnell.
My first memories are drenched in yellow and orange. This is a side effect of being born in 1977, a time when images possessed an overheated and slightly nauseating aura.
From the rooftop of a cheap hotel stained with weather and time, a woman gazes across the city at the global headquarters of Eli Lilly & Company.
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.
In 1941, my grandfather drove across the country to see the World’s Fair. There were no highways, the car broke down constantly, he slept in fields, and he said it was the best trip of his life.
When my father called my grandfather at the retirement home, there was often confusion. “Why are you calling so late?”
