old backyard

The backyard of the house I grew up in. I took this picture from my parents' bedroom window when I was probably about 14 or so. This continues the completely unintentional "My Brother Standing And Looking At Bodies Of Water" series, except this time his back isn't turned.

babymower

Two negatives, scratched up and combined. One negative is a picture of a baby. The other one is a close-up picture of a lawnmower part. I wish I knew what I was thinking when I created this monstrosity.

AM

Those are my initials. Yeah, I did it. You'll never catch me, coppers.

hand and rose

Photo of a portion of a book cover, shot through a magnifying glass.

lawnmower & bikes

Nice hog.

hurricane

My high school psychology teacher named this picture "Hurricane". I'm not sure he noticed there's a face in there.

scentOmatic

This is in the men's room at the Hu Ke Lau restaurant and karaoke bar in Chicopee, MA.

I'm usually on the move, so this was a great find. Luckily I had 75 cents on me, so I think you can imagine the sheer magnitude of the manly aroma that was radiating from me that day, and the next several days. These things should be everywhere.

close up eye

Shot through a magnifying glass.

Brattleboro stairway

Nighttime in Brattleboro, VT, 2006.

village driveway

Driveway from above, in Carpineto.

light notes

Looks like sheet music made of light to me.

Joshe with red hair

Two or three years before this one was taken.

the big sleep

Near Jim Morrison's grave, Père Lachaise Cemetary, Paris.

field bench

I picked this picture to post today completely at random. I just spun the ol' Photo-Go-Round and it landed on this one. Then I happened to glance at the date on the photo, and it turns out I took it exactly two years ago today. Ka-ray-zee.

tree lady

This sculpture used to be outside the entrance to the DeCordova museum. The print is solarized.

God bless pizza

The little piece of the red car up in the corner looks remarkably like the picture in my "vein" post. This can only mean one thing.

MY ART IS BECOMING REAL.

It's like that Stephen King book where the guy's pen name becomes a real person and tries to kill him. If I end up being murdered by a glowing heart or a laser cat or a pyramid-headed Mick Jagger, please write to Stephen King and make him feel guilty, because it will be his fault.

King Andrew

Headshot for Andrew's street performer license.

collapsed lung

Lee, showing his surgery scars to the wedding party.

white wall

Leaves. Dirt. A wall. Framingham.

hiding

Picture of a picture, manipulated in-camera.

Old North Bridge

Revolutionary War monument at night.

light brights

Before he was a terrorist, he was friends with my roommate and hung out at my apartment all the time. If only I had seen the signs, perhaps I could have prevented the hilarious, hilarious alien invasion/bomb scare of 2007.

robot baby

This doll was just as creepy before my brother and cousins ripped its face off. It's one of those ones that moves by itself and goes "ga-ga". I find those dolls kind of disturbing, so it's almost reassuring to see that they are, in fact, soulless machines. Of course, you may be thinking, "yeah, but how is that any different from a real baby?" Well, the difference is that this thing will not continue to physically expand through the years, absorbing television and Xbox, and acquiring motor skills, hormones, and knives, until one day it's a teenage boy that carves dolls' faces off.

OMJ

Old Man Josh and his homemade Tesla coil.

Fabio on his bike

In the backpack: probably beer.

O-NO

I lived on the top floor of my former apartment. One floor below us, there used to be a bedroom. It's no longer a bedroom because it has been sealed off. Because it is HAUNTED.

Years ago, this room was inhabited by some "crazy artist" lady, as it's been told to me. When she moved out of the apartment, she paid the building manager an unknown amount of money to seal the room off from the rest of the apartment, "no questions asked". Supposedly because the room is inhabited by spirits. There is now just a wall where the door used to be. However, there is a second door in this room that leads to the back stairwell. Its lock is crappy.

My friends and I broke in easily, to see what the deal was. The walls of the room are battered (in the physical sense, not the delicious sense) and haphazardly smeared with a reddish-pink paint of some sort. There are bits of newsprint embedded in the paint. There is no electrical power, no lightbulbs, no nothin', except the painting on the ceiling in the image above, and a rolling suitcase.

Big letdown: the suitcase was not full of skulls.

dresser

Because I am an internationally famous and highly-renowned professional photographer, you can always assume that my blurry shots are intentional.