Life imitates art. I imitate Long Island Jewish women. Poorly.
I love artistic shit like this. Coming from a family of artists there has always been the question of whether I would go the corporate route and get a full time job at an advertising firm, dress up in snazzy shoes and colorful ties and slave away against the grindstone effectively selling tiny fragments of my soul to a machine that doesn’t care much about the idealist so much as the ideas… or if I would do the bohemian artist lifestyle, taking life as it comes while serving my own creative whims and intentions and risking hunger, stability, and health insurance.
I have chosen the latter–50% because I am lazy and 90% because I want to stay true to what has been a true sense of fulfillment for me since birth. My art. It that math doesn’t make sense to you: Surprise–it doesn’t have to. I live in my world where I make the rules taxes be damned. That is why I love things like this guy who took a polaroid every day of his life. He created his life around his art and saw something where other people might see nothing. I admire that.
I also admire wrinkly old brown people sitting on beaches looking like dried up Coach purses. They always have amazing stories to tell. When you have an existence like that life doesn’t imitate art, it becomes it.
Sometimes he took photos of important documents or significant items.
Sometimes it was just a picture of a date.