I frame the shot: a perfect color representation of familiarity, of the difference between what's inside a window and what's outside. The living room is flooded with white light; I am taking a picture of the sun. The dark brown window ledge is suddenly luminous orange, the pale yellow walls become a deep mahogany by contrast. The backyard is invisible except for the intensely blue house behind ours, fading to white at the corner nearest the sun. The lower right quadrant of the picture is occupied by the image of the neighbor's house, as seen from inside mine.
You are lying on the couch rolling a joint, flicking your tongue along the edge of the rolling paper. The room is flooded with great splashes of light, and behind you a beaded ornament that my sister made in summer camp glows like a holy artifact. You extend your tongue tenderly towards the unfastened end of the joint, squinting against the glare.
The light meter tells me only one two-thousanth of a second is needed. Any more than that and the beautiful image of the surreal light in this house would be burned away. Only a solid black frame of film would appear on the roll, and a pure white unexposed paper would float innocently in the developer, never revealing anything. I fuck around with the aperture settings to try to get a longer exposure, but in the end I have to admit defeat before the power of this intense illumination. I click the shutter for one two-thousanth of a second at f-stop 28.
Still on the couch, you are engrossed in an operation just as delicate, the final touch of the tongue having prepared your joint to be heated slowly with a lighter, a task you carry out with nonchalant expertise. A while ago, some of my friends back home pooled a few bucks and got a rolling machine for theirs, but I can't help thinking that even rolling a joint in this stiflingly warm living room can be an art when undertaken with such great tenderness and care. Both are evidenced in your face as you carefully pack down the herb with a key.
This will go on for a few more minutes, and having already completed my task there is nothing for me but to watch you complete yours. You don't twist off the end of the joint the way my friends back home used to, before their machine. Instead you burn off the excess paper. Your eyes stay focused on the orange flame of the lighter, while mine follow the charred, glowing cinders as they fall to the floor.
You are lying on the couch rolling a joint, flicking your tongue along the edge of the rolling paper. The room is flooded with great splashes of light, and behind you a beaded ornament that my sister made in summer camp glows like a holy artifact. You extend your tongue tenderly towards the unfastened end of the joint, squinting against the glare.
The light meter tells me only one two-thousanth of a second is needed. Any more than that and the beautiful image of the surreal light in this house would be burned away. Only a solid black frame of film would appear on the roll, and a pure white unexposed paper would float innocently in the developer, never revealing anything. I fuck around with the aperture settings to try to get a longer exposure, but in the end I have to admit defeat before the power of this intense illumination. I click the shutter for one two-thousanth of a second at f-stop 28.
Still on the couch, you are engrossed in an operation just as delicate, the final touch of the tongue having prepared your joint to be heated slowly with a lighter, a task you carry out with nonchalant expertise. A while ago, some of my friends back home pooled a few bucks and got a rolling machine for theirs, but I can't help thinking that even rolling a joint in this stiflingly warm living room can be an art when undertaken with such great tenderness and care. Both are evidenced in your face as you carefully pack down the herb with a key.
This will go on for a few more minutes, and having already completed my task there is nothing for me but to watch you complete yours. You don't twist off the end of the joint the way my friends back home used to, before their machine. Instead you burn off the excess paper. Your eyes stay focused on the orange flame of the lighter, while mine follow the charred, glowing cinders as they fall to the floor.
aug. 2006, berlin.