What can YOU say in six sentences?
I get so nervous when I point the camera at you. Your radio eyes filled with blue static, hourglass figure without minutes or hours, your silver necklace drooping like hanged men's heads.
As I shoot, I think, It’s surprising what we choose to keep, to save.
Although I've said nothing, you admonish me, "Be quiet. You’re just the cameraman, you’re not really here.”
Then, like a school girl, you cock your head, as if contemplating a Salvador Dali at the MOMA, and with complete innocence, ask, "Do I have to use my REAL name?"