June 2010

Dreams of Istanbul

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I dream of Istan­bul. Four days and nights I’ve lived and breathed the city. Its east and west, cap­i­tal­ism and social­ism, Asian­ness and Euro­pean­ness, beau­ty and ugliness.

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What’s the Story?

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Noth­ing could be more fun­da­men­tal to our men­tal fac­ul­ties than our innate abil­i­ty to tell and com­pre­hend stories.

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Meedo Factorial

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This has been the longest I’ve gone with­out post­ing a new sto­ry. For the past 10 days I’ve been work­ing on (and off) my port­fo­lio and when I look back on pre­vi­ous work I get into a pen­sive mood. And when I think I don’t feel. And when I don’t feel I don’t write.

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Anything to Ad?

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I have mixed feel­ings about adver­tis­ing, and gen­er­al­ly accept or turn down projects on a case-by-case basis. Plus I only con­sid­er pho­tog­ra­phy an expen­sive hob­by, and in fact don’t make any men­tion of it on my web­site or busi­ness card.

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Short and Sweet

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Shake­speare’s Polo­nius claims that brevi­ty is the soul of wit. Yet he’d have chat­tered on and on if Ham­let did not half-acci­den­tal­ly stab him to death.

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Since its release almost four decades ago, Jacques Tati’s Play­time (1967) has aged like a fine wine. It start­ed life as a crit­i­cal punch­ing bag and slow­ly gained recog­ni­tion as an exquis­ite­ly detailed (and very fun­ny) vision of a bland and ulti­mate­ly bleak mod­ern distopia.

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