wild unicorns


My people are the wild unicorns and glitterponies of the night, the drag queens and the go-go princes, the misfits, the genderweirdos, the unflappably brilliant drama fairies.  We feed on french fries and cigarettes and bathe in the Rockaways at dawn. Dreamers and sages, artists and punks form an interdependent family of our own.

I am a mama bear, hunting for the Queen of Hearts.  Prowling the edges of the queer parties where we go to dance, seducing the disco lights and smog machines instead.  Me and my old Nikon and an eternal pile of 3200 Ilford Delta.

This year I arose from an intentional hibernation from taking pictures, and immediately began recording my adventures underground. There is something epic about the night, something so elegantly appropriate about shooting it grainy. In the daylight, at my job, I am professionally immersed in straightforward documentary imagery. But in my own photography I’m not aiming for the sharpness of a digital image: it’s up to me to remember the details.

This life is a magical thing, right now, yet I know that these moments are fleeting.  I want to hug the tenderness in my paws before it all slips away.

(I had to write a statement for a grant and it went something like this.)

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