Tuesday, 23 December 2014


a few christmases ago, yes that is my official christmas cape

I cry every Christmas eve like clockwork. I am the designated photographer of our family. Images and expectations, they say getting ready is the most fun and the unwrapped presents are hiding that our tree is made of plastic. I held Pickle over breakfast his cat eye refelected the lights and made a beautiful bauble.
I decorate our tree each year, I put beanie babies on our tree and hang them by their halos

and pickle dresses up all fancy, a cat in a cat in the hat hat

Christmas is a copy and paste job, yet whilst with autumn these conceived coordinates might be comforting with christmas is desperately sad, as each copy becomes weaker, blurrier, spells that lose their potency with repetition. And Robin Williams has killed himself now so all those repeats of his films are seeming a little off. Maybe Christ isn't a baby anymore like in our knitted nativity, everything is changing, shifting, dying.

miracle on 34th street/Ten Thousand Points of Light/diane arbus/gremlins/Gundula Schulze Eldowy

1 comment:

  1. damn tho i luv u
    we have an angel troll at the top of our tree, no beanie babies sadly!