I could call them all angels. Not angels perhaps, but angelic. In the throws of smoke and flora, they are as intent on leisure as they are the militia’s momentum.
They lay supine and prone, eyes and arms aimed upwards.
On the best day everything is pink and there is kissing and flowers and beer.
On the worst day there are fires and shouting and the angels are disguised. Several Sundays and several gunshots pass by.
This collection studies revolt, celebration, ecstasy, intimacy, and body proximity, physicality, and both bodily and ecological turmoil.