Bed Portrait: Dennis

A couple of weeks ago I drove my sinus infection ten hours to St. Louis to photograph a story. I was scared and sick and tired and alone for much of the time, and shit was so beautiful it was borderline spiritual.

Something about watching all that prairie roll by. Something about whatever I wanted on the radio, the sun setting against rows of swaying turbines; something about the gnawing fears I had about my abilities and basic safety, and something about the fact I was doing it all anyway. When there was an abandoned house I wanted to check out off the highway, I pulled over, got out of the car and stood in the warm breeze. My shuffle picked up “Sweet Jane,” and I repeated it over and over, screaming along as I sailed down that empty road.

Some people, they like to go out dancing —
And other peoples, they have to work — just watch me now!
And there’s even some evil mothers . . . well they’re gonna tell you that
Everything is just dirt;
Y’know that, women, never really faint,
And that villains always blink their eyes, woo!
And that, y’know, children are the only ones who blush!
And that, life is just to diiiiie!

I was still sick — probably sicker, when I was done shooting the story — a long day ducking between sculptures and glass, a late night in rain and floodlights. But I was also thrilled with how it had gone, and a mere four hours from Kansas City. “Still want me to visit?” I texted Dennis. Yeah he did. I bought another box of Kleenex, got in the car, turned the music up.

More bed portraits: here.

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