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New York City Paper
I looked for the dirtiest, most damaged, walked-upon, run-over paper I could find. The feeling of having been been defiled, that an infinite number of showers would never get rid of the dirt from the rape – that’s what I was thinking about for this image.
I later realized that there was some irony to the fact that, on this one sheet of paper, I discovered some beautiful compositions. How could such beauty and such horror exist on the same plane? Was the search for beautiful compositions a search for what might be left of my inner core?
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