Vernacular photos in their anonymity, their lost histories, become receptacles of our projections & fantasies. While I feel a bit iconoclastic in terms of reading photos: thinking that reality is actually not all that visible, & that photos cannot be read clearly at all, that their secrecies are always intact & elusive; still it is w/ a sense of the uncanny that I find myself veering towards certain images. Is this a kind of wish fulfillment done in fragments?
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