Simulacra by Bastardjer
Photography and words by bastardjer
Recently, I released a series of portraits I compiled using my Canon sure shot 35mm camera. All photos captured were the result of completely random and spontaneous incidences. All photos were shot with my eyes closed.
TYLER, THE CREATOR
After cordially escorting myself backstage I was greeted with an exhilarating feeling. I had entered a great world of release. Islands of misshapen waste created a murky body of water. The flushing noise that the toilet made sounded like Bob Hope’s last words. I left the restroom and closed the door behind me. Delicatessen filled the space. Shrouded figures holding silver platters on their wrists stood stoically in each corner of the room. Two fair skinned women wearing matching Gummo Marx jerseys were speaking on the topic of Zionism. A scruffy old man tuned his unicycle in the outside patio. Next thing I know Tyler’s there standing next to Jasper. We ended up having an amazing conversation over cigars and cocktails. We talked about that one time Harmony Korine tried to make music, how Gatorade bottles shaped like penises taste the best, and his own unique Lynchian theory. I ponder on it at least once a week. Watching interview after interview of inspiring people can be motivating, but when you can get a string of phrases from one of the people that instilled confidence in you with his work and demeanor. Well that’s another story.
Always play golf on Father’s Day.
“If you don’t have those receptors that part of the world simply does not exist,” HE whispered. This phrase cycled throughout my head and onto the road beneath me. Miniature fires lit by mechanical devices roasted the tips of tobacco wrapped greenery. Smoke filled the streets once greeted by idle chatter. Screaming at the top of my lungs as I endured the rollercoaster ride. “Omg you’re Kevin Abstract! Can I take your picture?”, I yelled happily. “Sure.” replied HE.
I honestly have no recollection what so ever of this photo. A pleasant surprise like finding a five carrot diamond ring inside of your frosted flakes or realizing one morning that your farts smell like blueberries instead of month old ramen noodles.
The atmosphere was tense as it made dimples in the ocean. Top hats and jewels of mercury reached inertia under the crescent moonlight. Women of many faces. Men of suspected valor. Kids being fed hay and grains in the field. As I witnessed Bexey eat his first sour patch on American soil, claiming “It was bloody good.”
His aura was glowing like that of a martyr. He is a walking stoic image. My eye was bleeding that night from a random popped blood vessel and he didn’t notice.
The aroma of liquor and sweat seeping from the pores of silhouettes dangling in the room filled my nose. The first thing that caught my lazy eye’s attention was Buku’s choker. Instantly I was taken to a place where I was greeted by an old man and his pit bull. There was lots of green. The foam on the dog’s mouth was bubbling. I went to touch his spiked collar, when his teeth clinched my right hand. The dog ran off with my pinky. Then the old man disappeared. When I came back to my senses. I left the room and went looking for a new finger. Perhaps a wooden one.
“Little Raven, little Raven, who’s hair is most fair. Little Raven, little Raven, who doesn’t really care.” - a woman wearing a paper bag
Richard P. Hilton. Producer, Writer, Director, and lovely man sneezed directly onto my retinal lens after I took this photo. I woke up with a smile on my face the next morning.
This man I know personally to be real.