I like water stained paper.
Spelling errors in a hand-written letter.
Ink smeared across the page from flustered, hasty hands.
l like poorly-dyed garments,
the ones you can tell came from fingers stained with shimmering indigo, merigold, cochineal.
I like things that are so undeniably human.

Yet I am so often apt to negatively criticize and tear my own work apart.
Obsessing over imperfections and mistakes. Wishing I had done it a different way.
Cursing myself for even trying.

When I was put to the task of creating a camera, I lost my sense of self-condemnation.
I was solely concerned with achieving actual results. Any results.

Pinhole cameras have always seemed like an ultra-complex, highly-engineered mystery to me.
So instead of my habitual stress-filled attempts to organize my illogical, non-linear thought process, I just did it. I took an antique tin, drilled a hole in the centre and fiddled around with aluminum, pins, electrical tape and cardboard. After a few hours, I was holding a pinhole camera loaded with 35mm colour film. Tarot spreads, cribbage boards, Chinese checkers, fireside ghosts, mandolins and hours of highly-styled tablescapes began to manifest on the emulsion.

And the results? Totally flawed.

Yet totally revered.