a four-piece series within the POST-MODERN body of work
The photographs are lies. We see one another in flashes of light and suddenly we feel close. A sense of intimacy is fabricated and we begin to build relationships on this false sense of connectedness. And we fall in love with someone who was never there to begin with. Our intimacy with the photographs makes us sick. Those pictures of her become a surrogate we cling to, one we can hold in our hands and never lose grip. Her pretty little face is enough for us and eventually we’re content with the illusion—the mental breakdown. She exists abbreviated in these coveted snapshots and so does our love. Yet she’s always just a lie.