Peter from Dallas is coming to town. You better watch out, kids. I’ll be picking him up in a bit at the airport. I’m going to photograph some part of him this weekend, not sure which, for the new series of disjunct portraits that I mentioned a few days ago. He’s so into all things related to bottomness that I feel compelled to explore that territory. I haven’t decided yet on a structural framework for the project, just that I want to work with about six guys, and make one composite portrait of each–then perhaps a Frankenstein portrait made of two images from each of the six portraits. Tim’s back hair swirl is next, and I’m toying with the idea of refering to Van Gogh’s Starry Night in some way, those whorls tumbling across the night sky, serene and tumultuous.
I’m continuing to study French and train for the major caloric input that my body will suffer through in Paris. I can’t say no to a pastry. Or a crepe or a cheese or a wine or a goose liver… I want to die like the guys in La Grande Bouffe, of gastronomic excess.
My French tapes, alas, are preparing me and my wife, and our two children, one large boy and one small girl, evidently, for renting a car and filling the tank with 30 litres of gas. L’essence, (lay-sawnce) in French. Did you ever hear such a beautiful word for gasoline? I’m getting a little nervous. Thus far I’ve learned nothing of practical use. How do you say “Those are nice furry shoulders, Monsieur–perhaps you’d like to join me for a coffee and a tooth flossing?”