Craig Childs

I’m nostalgic, maybe the way New Yorkers far from home might think wistfully on the odor of a summer garbage strike in the city, black, stinking trash bags stacked into mountains in front of buildings. Not only the beautiful parts are cherished; grotesqueries have their own rooms to explore

My appearance, possibly springing to life somewhere in this town, was another strand in a tapestry woven every day, stacking up for thousands of years, a particular thread or dye, a drop, a stain