Text and photography by Charlene Winfred
“You read enough books in which people like you are disposable, or are dirt, or are silent, absent, or worthless, and it makes an impact on you. Because art makes the world, because it matters, because it makes us. Or breaks us.”
This is the space in between the hallowed and the sacrificial.
History, the ligature of memory; that which gives life, and sucks it out of the marrow. A spectre hounding you in the night.
Terror.
Self.
Home.
