There is a moment shared. I can see it. I can see the face and the shoes, the walls and the ceiling. There is no clock on the wall, or time in the picture. But I know it is dark out, and very still. I can see the brow of a face and I can smell the scent of him. I know a feeling. All other details are blurry or irrelevant. But I can see shoes by a table end and coats strewn on tall chairs, draped over wooden shoulders. I can see their fur and cotton duffels, their pockets’ peeking gloves; their wet buttons and damp, crisp collars. There are toes curling in stockings and nylon, a hemline just so, décolletage concealed but bare wrists on show. Vulnerable napes on necks and brow bones animating. I can see caution and worry disappear and, instead, soft cotton brushing silk. These two should never meet; now they long to be close. I can see carefully creased lines, folds, steamed, pressed and poised, fall away into a hold. I see the thought, the long thought, of a presentation of form become a thing to remove and reveal the underneath. Love is a beautiful clothed and unclothed thing.
Well loves, did i mention i've written a little something for the newest issue of thread magazine? an interview with the irreverant eoin dillon no less. get thee to the gallery of photog in meeting house square to see the exhibition and pick up a copy. can you tell i'm excited