There's so much fucked-up reality, like Frank the pimp who hunted me down on Sunset. He steps out of his black boat and his arm muscles are eye-level and he has this black wife-beater, tells me don't i know chocolate goes well with vanilla. i say oh really, real flat, like wow how enlightening. he has 92 different pieces of gold jewelry on his body
it follows this pattern: heavy sexual innuendo to professing serious relationship intent to overwhelmingly vulgar to claiming he can put 10000 in my bank account by next month AND we'll have great sex.
I mean and then there is all this fucking cocaine everywhere.
I don't like Snow's photographs as much as I like Nan Goldin's, and I can't tell you why I'm attracted to this sort of imagery. It's so incredibly dark. I guess maybe it's the honesty in them; because you can't reproduce that kind of stuff in a studio. I can relate to the obsession with death that comes across in them so strongly.
HOW ARE YOU IN THAT MANY RIGHT PLACES AT THE RIGHT TIMES?
I only just learned about him 'cause he died on the 13th of this month and I visit some blogs of people that I guess were close friends with him.