Being surrounded by so many colorful sexual organs

January was a whirlwind. Travelled around, slept little, walked in a snow storm, missed a flight, sang in the rain, sat in a lot of trains, looked out at a lot of windows. And the photo store had to lose my roll of 35mm shots. In its place, I was given this—a collection of photographs of a woman I do not know. Whoever you are, you are now part of my life.

Your center parting is miraculously straight, dividing your head into two perfect hemispheres. You are dressed in black, head to toe, perhaps as a way of standing out from your technicolor surroundings. Sometimes I wish I could sweep away your rebonded hair and read the words on your shirt. I wonder if it would make more sense than a fortune cookie. You have a habit of placing your hand on a subject for a photo. Although extremely textbook, I’d like to think of it as your way of connecting to your photo props, ie, the bonsai tree, the orchid, or the phallic flower arrangement in the shape of your prime minister’s slogan.

And what about this sculpture? It looks like a bike riding nightmare of the post-post modern variety. And I don’t even know what that meant. The foreboding ‘Please do not enter’ sign makes this all the more inviting. I like that you are gingerly squatting next to it. Your left hand cupping your knee is tense. Please loosen up. This is probably the most punk rock ikebana sculpture you’ll ever see.

Frog Prince and the Styrofoam Kerbau?

How Juergen Teller. Too bad about the high magenta.

Did I tell you how gangsta you look in that cap?

And as you-know-who would say, Salam 1Malaise.