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I think restlessness --
of imagination, but also bodily, by which I have mostly meant sexual, I see that now --
is what brings us to that space where art and life not only seem interchangeable, for a moment they are so,
space where they penetrate one another,
space in which, caught between the two, we can be variously lost, broken,
or we can summon that daring that can bring us -- loss and brokenness in tow -- to unknowing.
When I speak of unknowing,
I don't mean ignorance so much as a kind of removal of all the trappings of presentation --
how we present ourselves to the world --
and an accompanying exposure of the usually hidden parts,
what we hide equally from others and from ourselves.
Carl Phillips, in the preface to Art of Daring
linebreaks: mine
* * *
Every photo from the moment, minus one.
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