Several of my photographs in this book were commissioned by a Houston-based charity known as Texas Arms of Love. By "commissioned," I mean that this charity was vigorously plundered by the booking agent of a well known christian rock star, to fund countless nights of gratuitous sushi dinners and heavy-drinking, of which I was gratefully participant. Thanks to my obliviousness to these pesky details at the time, I was saved the time and energy of a pang of conscience.
At any rate, I found myself reluctantly touring across Europe with this devious charlatan as a temporary job, and, unaware that the authors of my paychecks had intended those funds to lubricate the work of God's hand(s) on this earth, I used them to take numerous photographs of graffiti and industrial landscapes in Spain.
In light of this serpentine path from charity to my wallet, one could infer that my photographs in this book were in some way commissioned by either God or Satan, depending on your point of view. I, myself, am not partial. In fact, I find both to be tireless benefactors of the arts, and equally stimulating company.
Whether or not celestial sponsors exist, I'm unconvinced that artists actually "create" anything, as much as artists would like to think they are that special. I prefer to think that artists attempt to draw lines between orphaned constellations. And if two points are required to draw a line, they may as well span heaven and hell, considering the ample uncharted space between the two. As ugly as dualities are, at least they provide a nice, flat workspace, and it is somewhere upon that desk that my camera stared into the light.