I always wanted to be an artist, writer and poet since I was seven, and one has to live long enough to evolve as an artist and do one’s finest work.
Horses pretty much broke as a record in England.
Besides me wanting to be an artist, I wanted to be a movie star.
The idea of redemption is always good news, even if it means sacrifice or some difficult times.
I have great respect for my parents. I got such beautiful things from both of them. It doesn’t mean that we didn’t have our rough times, but they were remarkable people who were open-minded, creative and hard-working, and had great senses of humor.
I was so involved in my boy-rhythms that I never came to grips with the fact that I was a girl. I was twelve years old when my mother took me inside and said, “You can’t be outside wrestling without a T-shirt on.” It was a trauma.
Both of them were ahead of their time, but they didn’t live long enough to see the time they were ahead of.
I refuse to believe that Hendrix had the last possessed hand, that Joplin had the last drunken throat, that Morrison had the last enlightened mind.
Finally, by the sea, where God is everywhere, I gradually calmed.
I imagined myself as Frida to Diego, both muse and maker. I dreamed of meeting an artist to love and support and work with side by side.
I hated the soup and felt little for the can.
I knew if I lived long enough I would be poet laureate of something.
So my last image was as the first. A sleeping youth cloaked in light, who opened his eyes with a smile of recognition for someone who had never been a stranger.
Truthfully, I don’t really think of myself as a photographer. I don’t have all the disciplines and knowledge of a person who’s spent their life devoted to photography.
I was like one of the boys in school who flap their legs frantically under the desk. I always had this weird feeling between my legs and I had no idea what it was. I didn’t know girls masturbated. I never touched myself or anything...
What is the soul? What color is it? I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return. I did my best not to fall asleep, to keep it inside of me where it belonged.
I was horny, but I was innocent ’cause I was a real-late bloomer and not particularly attractive. In fact, homely.
Everything distracted me, but most of all myself.
I thought to myself that he contained a whole universe that I had yet to know.
I have vague memories, like impressions on glass plates...