The first photograph understood to depict me. (I am this and this is me.)
In Vienna, there was no poshness. To look carefully dressed seemed an expression of every value but wealth: care, self-love, respect of material etc. I was 16 and earned myself a living and eight walls with photography.
At art school (uniforms of individuality), the most important thing was to dress rather seriously.
Sense: king of the world, or my world. Any world, really.
Life as light as a feather: some photographs frighten me – not, however, in themselves. To be precise, it is my future that they question: will I drift even further away from bygone easiness?
Relish of simple pleasures is the supreme discipline in a society that condemns them.
“Work is love made visible.” - Khalil Gibran.
Had to leave: exile in the misantropics.
Exile two: up there. Where to?
From that image onwards, everything feels present. To be continued once that impression changes ...