I love photos of spaces entropic and/or (once) ornate. It’s an intuitional, highly emotive function of photography that is hard to capture and calibrate correctly. It also implies the nomadic requirements of its compilation, which greatly appeals to my own wanderlust. Michael Eastman’s Vanishing America does this well, I think. And Eugene Richard’s The Blue Room. A lesser known but equally talented Sean Donnola pulls this off with great grace. And of course there’s Bill Eggleston. Fucking maniac.
I was recently introduced to the work of Andrew Moore by the French Mme at Clic Bookstore, a place where one should go should one not yet have gone. (And if you wanted to buy me their copy of Peter Beard’s Diary, I wouldn’t hate you for it.) Moore’s work makes me feel at home, which is to say: alone. It makes me feel a non-specific yearning that’s not nostalgia, that daydreamy function of desire, but also something not far from it. Perhaps a bastard form of mourning. Or maybe its the ironic, internal vacancy of not being gone. But regardless, it facilitates my fictions of want. And I love him for that.