Women :: Public Strain

On Public Strain, I constantly feel like I’m staring at an unrecognizable and clawed-at photo. It looks familiar. Like a friend or a place that I know well yet can’t firmly identify. I continue to pull the photo closer and begin to enjoy the imperfections (faded color, ripped edges and wrinkled integrity) and no longer feel or desire any relation to the subject. By no means . . .

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