Henderson Books in Bellingham, WA is a favorite place of mine and if you’re the bookish type, it’s well worth a detour. Here, used books are treated like the sacred relics they are, and not like mouldy trash found in a weird relation’s basement after he died. It’s a bright, clean and friendly environment in which the stock is well-organized into intuitive categories. A pleasure dome in which time stands still.
I acquired this photograph at Henderson Books as a bonus in either the signed copy of Freaky Deaky I got there or in Merlin Thomas’ critical study of Céline. Presumably, it served as a bookmark. I’ve kept it in the condition in which it came to me.
It is 65mm wide along the bottom, and 130mm long on the left side. It is printed on semi-gloss resin-coated Fujicolor paper. The white marks concealing the face have been physically scratched into the surface of the print, rather than having been made on the negative. The upper right corner has been cut with a razor knife and a straight edge.
The camera and flash were fairly close to the subject. A Velbon-style tripod sits in the background, close to the faux oak furniture.
The subject herself is, obviously, an adult female. She has bruises on her thighs. I think she is a platinum blonde. She is wearing a band on her wedding finger (assuming the image hasn’t been flopped). And perhaps at least one sock.
That’s all I can say with certainty about this photograph, both as image and artefact. I know nothing about the subject, the photographer or when, where or why it was taken, or why it was defaced.
A picture like this is full of psychological potential, however, and I could speculate all day long, but in doing so I would be telling you more about myself than about the photograph. This may be an unusual example, but all photographs work that way.
,
