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published, SSK Press, 2017
Edition: First, Edition (/25) SIGNED
34 Pages, B&W & COLOR
Unique mylar Cover w/
Language: English

ISHOKO a new 2-part artist book series
#North American Books #African Books #Photobooks #Signed #First Edition #Out of Print #New York #Black and White #Color #Documentary Photography

Small planes always make me think of 2 people: Aaliyah & Buddy Holly. I've never had a fear of flying but there's something about a pilot reorganizing persons on a small 4-seat Cessna via their weight that makes you wonder. And after 40hrs of travel, arriving in Gorofani, sun rising in a tide pool of light ebbing out different rays of kelvin around me, motorcycles passing by w/ the words from a radio asking if you remember how we used to sing, and all I could do was think of home, lost to distance, not knowing that months later I’d be picking a lock to a ladder in order to sleep on the roof of my studio. Just the other night studying lights from faraway planes burning in the sky against a sequin of stars sobbing like liquid diamonds, my thoughts still swimming in the particulates of your person though we've since left each other. Months before: floating above Zion on a plane 1000mi from you, traveling on foot to Lesasoo & back again, riding to Barazani, Endamaghay, Arusha, Zanzibar, Dar es Salaam, Addis Ababa, Dublin & now here; the progression of plane propellers pirouetting against an African sunrise seeming to me to be the perfect image for forgetting although all I can do is remember you. Talking to separate tribes in the area, the Datoga, Iraqw, Maasai- for no reason my mind wanders to a memory of falling in love w you. That long drive to San Francisco. And even though we’re no longer together I see you everywhere. Scared to forget but not wanting to remember. I’ve had so little sleep these past few months it feels like I’m dreaming. Helping the Hadza write their first constitution after thousands of years- did that really happen? I read updates on the small screen of my phone: the loss of Princess; days later, Bungu losing her life & her children. I can see their faces still, smiling as they would, always lying down in that special spot of sun. My last night in CA: sleeping under the moon in some forest I haven’t seen in years. There’s something about silence that says so much. Leaves falling on the surface of a small brook behind me breathing its liquid down toward the highway. Each sound some saturnine diversion from the one I want to hear: your voice.