"Grab me a cigarette" he said. I reached for the unopened pack of Marlboro reds, turned it face down, and introduced it to the palm of my hand with a hard thrust. Again, and again, and again. I ran my index finger along the surface of the smooth cellophane until it caught the edge and ripped. I pulled the fresh opened box quickly to my nose to catch the familiar aroma of unlit tobacco, which always reminded me of raisins…

Up until recently, I had almost no method of organization for any of the personal work that I made. I was self-propelled both by erratic intuition and instant gratification. I do not recall ever creating a contact sheet, simply using that intuition to scan the images I thought best, and, if they made it back into their respective sleeve, it was sometimes upside down or backwards…