Herbert Morris

Were it not for that photograph, disaster in its final stages, matchbox houses coming down, rubble of streets, uprooted trees, lives we somehow could not envision, removed from us and not our own, on distant coasts the fall of night, we might never [...]

     for Robin Fredenthal It was this way from the beginning: dreams of the sun in sunless places, gold on the tip of the Dutch tongue, flames pouring from damp corners morning's mist from the salt flats settles in, moves into our garments with u [...]