"Interesting things happen when you take reality and monumentality and rub them together. For one thing, it becomes obvious that there is no such thing as a permanent sculpture--that it's impossible to immortalize oneself or anything else with a sculpture because a sculpture does nothing but decay. Even bronze and stone are not stable materials. The David was brought inside because acid rain was eating him. In fact, the more you start looking around with this in mind, the more obvious it is that nothing lasts forever. That your house, your car, tools, your own body. It's all falling apart, and humans spend a lot of energy fighting entropy but it's around every corner, in every vacant lot. Your skin cells are falling off your body and settling into every nasty corner of your house. Things change."

-Deborah Fisher

Boy, do they ever. My own aging process has made itself heard loud and clear over the last 6 to 10 months, like a song that's always been playing but whose volume has been suddenly and unexpectantly cranked. The hairline (in organized retreat for the last 5 years) has suddenly broken ranks and fled for the rear, leaving hundreds of wounded and dying on the bottom of the tub. The ears and nose have begun to sprout strange, wispy white hairs at random (it seems impossible that a hair growing out of one's nostril could go from 1 centimeter to half an inch in a single day, but I'm telling you, it's happening.) The beard is filled with coarse, thickened white cables (I can't bring myself to call them hairs, they are cables) and now these same cables are sprouting out of both eyebrows, looking for all the world like stray branches from some petrified white forest.
The result of all this is that I'm forced to keep a constant watch over my face and head, clipping and snipping away in the bathroom mirror like some weird form of human Chia Pet, lest these growths gain the upper hand and turn me into a canadian version of Jordy Verrill.
The fact that even the most archival of my photographs will only outlast me by, at best, 70 odd years is sobering as well. Compared to most sculpture, a photograph seems about as permanent as a piece of lint being carried by a storm over the middle of the pacific.