Geoff Mitchell: Magic Lanterns
As a guide map for how one could approach my work, I often like to tell a story from my childhood to create an analogy. When I was a young boy of five or six years old, my family was living in a trailer park in the deep
south. Behind the last trailer of the front row, there was a narrow dirt trail that ran alongside the property fence. One day while playing on that trail, I discovered a faint and peculiar grey handprint on the back of the metal trailer. The handprint appeared to depict elongated fingers and a small palm that melted away at the wrist. The nails were abnormally long, grotesque and eerie.
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As a guide map for how one could approach my work, I often like to tell a story from my childhood to create an analogy. When I was a young boy of five or six years old, my family was living in a trailer park in the deep
south. Behind the last trailer of the front row, there was a narrow dirt trail that ran alongside the property fence. One day while playing on that trail, I discovered a faint and peculiar grey handprint on the back of the metal trailer. The handprint appeared to depict elongated fingers and a small palm that melted away at the wrist. The nails were abnormally long, grotesque and eerie.
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