The haunting fear of love lies beneath the floor.
She's my best friend because of the weird things she lets me do to her. This series is by far my favorite work I have done. I entitled it Daylight Haunting because it features my basic instinct to capture the dark side of a haunting spirit. Prisoner to a house in a state of total disorder.
Insomnia keeps her awake at night and often. Her mind runs like a horse, a drum machine that won't stop pounding beats on repeat. Sitting on her knees, in bed, drowning in the mystical world that always intrigued her, she opened one of her old magic books. Her skin illuminated by mornings first light, she looked deathly pale, like her heart would stop at any minute; Ivy died that morning.
It was Halloween when the birds stopped singing, stopped flying. By afternoon there was no wind not even a breeze to move the fallen leaves scattered over the sidewalk.
A vain attempt to keep his creepy grin at bay, Robin, biting the edge of a smile, glanced over at Ivy in her favorite red velvet chair sitting before the fireplace. That mischievous look of his spread and in a few seconds that pirate grin of his was on her face too. A devil may care atmosphere that calls for a highly personalized soundtrack and a dress to match the grandeur of occasions, Robin dedicated his life to the party and so a party we shall have.
When night came there was no twilight, no sunset, simply a blackness that wrapped to the world. His breath as thick as the fog seeping through the cracks of the door, her muscles froze, crippling them to the concrete. From the darkness that lurks together they stood in the middle of the street waiting for the demons fashioned in their worst nightmares. The only light was a gentile yellow flicker from within the jack-o-lanterns on the porch.
Some are seduced by the dark side. Others are attracted to the light.
Robin Banks is always down to business, his attitude is nothing but classy, rather bulky and quite intensive. He speaks more than he listens, no one can ever tell him a word without him having a hundred things to say back. He's never been here to mess around, it's either straight to the point or he's out. Clever and egocentric like a child, he acts on impulse; Robin loves the hustle, the battle, the dirt.
Robin has always been straight forward, not only in regards to his career but speaking of his life in general. Born in the tinniest, dirtiest, most boring part of the city, a suburb where children run free, he lived in a small apartment with his entire family. It's not a big wonder why he had to get the hell out of there as soon as possible and make his own living.
His eager mind, precise focus and ability to get out of any situation through manipulation, Robin finally moved out of his run down town and came to the big city. Robin spends his days rolling in his black truck, taking photographs, following people of society in mystery and living through the shadows of strangers who's sins only he knew.
The door represents a pathway to who we are. A symbolic story of life change, the centre of the door is the front entrance of the home. As Kay opens the door for the very first time, she lets the magic enter and stumbles over the weight of oblique sadness now resting on her.
A soft light peers through the white lace curtains that rest along the floor in the distance past the glass double doors. She looks to the wood staircase in front of her that creek with the wind. Kay follows the winding way it leads to the top of the tower. Four bedrooms reside on this floor of the mansion, Kay chose the first door to the right. The smaller of the rooms, the floor to ceiling windows illuminate the soft blue color of the walls.
Kay awoke at five the first morning in the mansion to the pale moon light peering through the window. It's her favorite time of day, the last moment of stillness right before the earth awakens and all stillness is lost. She sits on the desk, through the mirror across the room she watches Eugene sleep. Kay lights a cigarette before considering coffee, that's just her preference. She doesn't even smoke it. It's just nice to start the day with some soothing, grey, dark mist like one of Charles Baudelaire's poems.
The Tiffany glass chandler above Kay's head vibrates from the strum of a rich instrument, "Poor angel," it sang. A shiver rushed down her spine and her eyes, with piercing tension, locked on the door. Sucking in her breath, Kay walked to the bedroom door reaching out to open it. The music stopped. She slowly pushed open the door, the creek beneath her feet and the sound of her breath were all she could hear. The house felt unnaturally still. There is a dampness that does not belong to the air outside as she crept down the staircase.
Kay stands at the glass double doors for only a moment. She listens to the house, still no sound. She grabs the brass door knob opening the door just a crack. An uneasy breeze blows through the doors brushing a golden hair across her face. The echoing strum invades the silence of the mansion again. She opens the door wider to listen closely. Silently she steps through the great hall passing the round oak table. The windows dark and gaping, beneath Kay's feet a light peered through the bowed floor boards. She heard a whistle through the kitchen before her.
The kitchen is rather large and dusty. The cupboards are faded yellow with light green trim and the tap from the sink is leaking on to the pile of dirty plates and bowls in it. She came to the closed pantry door, faded yellow, paint curling with age, a brass knob consumed by a network of thick cobwebs, reaching out, she turned it. In front of her swung open the door leading outside slamming against the house. The wind flourished outside and with much hurry, Kay reached for the door locking it shut.
A moment of calm relief broken by an almighty note. It would have remained undiscovered, a passage door hidden within the wall so well concealed. A curious and striking contrast tempted her to open the door. Before her lies a narrow passage way down dank steps. She steps deeper, cobwebs brush her face. She reached the bottom of the stairs, the ceiling sagged in the middle where a steady drip of water hit the concrete floor. The house stood still and so did time. A cold damp air wrapped around her like a heavy coat. Sparkling just the same as any cut diamond, growing like a crystal, an emerald green light rose out of the door frame.
The wood of the door has grown soft and moldy and through its broken hinges, a windowless perfection with a single entrance. The mansion loomed proudly with a thick coating of dust resting upon everything. From the structure of a pianos core came music in no form she had heard, it sang softly, "So much to say and no ears willing to listen, no soul willing to feel the torment that lies within." Its beautiful mystery left Kay not afraid, no, but there is something unbelievable about this place. The mansion has a core rooted in so much untold. Kay stepped away slowly from the molded door, careful to not disrupt the song.
Behind her, Kay closed the glass double doors. Walking up the towers wood staircase, she stops at the last step when the cord strums for the final time, "These are suspicious times and you my dear are stranger than most." A smile gleaming in her eyes, she slipped back into bed, Eugene still asleep, telling herself, "Tonight, I will sleep like the king of this decrepit mansion."
“I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.”
Westley Amica III, CEO of Greenhouse productions (a branding, event consulting and graphic design company) and the creative director for Raw Impact, has set a mission to make Kalamazoo a power house. Bringing collaborations of outstanding artists and talent to a growing community, Westley is paving a way for young entrepreneurs to make their mark with every creative production.
"Solving Kalamazoo's problems one by one."
"Life is primary. Life is your deepest inner being. It is already whole, complete, perfect."
Calm is his superpower. He doesn't dwell on the past or worry about the future. He trusts that what has happened brought him to this point and what will happen will take him where he needs to go. I admire that most about Lewis. In his joy of being, Lewis absorbs earths free flowing electrons keeping him in motion.
He encourages self intellect when he talks about his own. His spiritual growth to stay present in everyday life, it helps to be deeply rooted within yourself; the mind, which has incredible momentum, will drag you along like a wild river. Lewis sits still in a 10 square foot space in times of sudden creative callings. The soft sun of the winter morning graces his skin and I find something very empowering in his silence, a potent carrier of presence. It just simply breathes art, poetry and creativity. A flash of insight, a moment of no-minded and total presence. It gives me a taste of enlightenment because the egos needs are endless.
I like being near him. Watching the divine universe unfold from beneath, the essence of meditation is a deeply satisfying thing. I catch myself smiling be aware of the gaps between us; to listen to the silence. Listening to the silence immediately creates stillness inside me. His meditative state causes a serious leakage of vital energy I have become addicted to. Triggered by great beauty my mind is rendered speechless.
Raven is a black haired girl that rarely goes out without her dark, black lipstick. In fact she rarely goes out at all. In the comfort of her dark, green wallpapered bedroom where nude photography fills in the space, surrounding her with still, frozen beauty she enjoys her loneliness.
The day scares her off. There’s something about the brightness, the exposure and the awkwardness of day light that makes her want to stay in until dusk. Not that she is a vampire of any sorts, even though her white porcelain skin is something she tries her best to take care of. It’s the lack of mystery, a certain absence of grace that she tries to escape as much as she can. The subtle light, the late evening flare, it’s when the shadows come and dance on the skin and the bright lights of the city awaken. When the colors get darker, blurring our vision, smoothing the imperfections and letting it’s strange mystery float around… that’s when Raven wakes herself up from her usual nap, puts on a pair of black satin heels to get ready. She’ll walk in the middle of the night by herself, black on her lips. The sound of her heels resonating in the empty streets.
Admitting to yourself the truth.
It always felt to Eugene as if he came from another world, maybe because he never really fit in… or because he never really wanted to. Something deep within always pushed him to think he was different, and he never really knew if it was a good thing or not, but learned to embrace it. Coming to understand the pain of daggers pounding into his soul, he studies his own depression just as how I had observed it all along. Wounds so deep that words and sympathy cannot match the level of heartache, Eugene was crashing before my eyes. A room once filled with a swirling energy of blinding colors is now a deep black hole of cold gusting winds. Like a private journal, Eugene used his body as a canvas to write the words he could not speak.
I can hear the music blasting through his headphones from across the room.
Covered in writing, I waited three hours for him to finish his thoughts or until he ran out of skin, whichever comes first. The words written on his body were his regrets, his passions, losses, heartache, embarrassment, shame, wishfulness and surly much more than that. His stillness and quietude were means of emoting to the toxic events he fell victim. Through my inebriated lens I observe the pure and innocent, yet inescapably violent human existence.
" To be yourself in a world that is trying to make you into something else is a beautiful accomplishment."
People think of laughter as a noise that comes from the mouth, but when Kay laughed it was nothing like that. Laughter was in her eyes, in the way her face changed into that vision of relaxed joy,
kay was beautiful, but not like those girls in magazines. She was beautiful for the way she thought. She was beautiful for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful deep down to her soul. She is beautiful.
Kay had everything, she was the girl next door. She wasn't skinny but she filled her jeans in all the right places. She loved to take nude photos, she was confident that way.
Kay stood for everything and at the same time she stood for nothing.
She's a secret keeper
Once upon a time Kay was sweet and innocent and then shit happened.
Kay did what she wanted but in an admirable way. She married her goals, remained committed to success. She realized it was okay to choose herself.
Many things interested her and nothing satisfied her entirely.
You admire a woman who draws silent attention. You notice her without realizing.
You admire a woman who draws silent attention. You notice her without realizing. She's a badass with a good heart.. soft but strong. Unapologetic and honest. A girl unburdened, Ivy had long abandoned her shame and modesty knowing she couldn't possibly please everyone. She had drive and passion. she knew exactly what she wanted and did something about it. Ivy is gracefully insane and somehow her imperfections made her perfect.
I first met Ivy six years ago, she read me like a book. Though she wasn't judging me, she triggered my inner conscious. In the overcrowded streets, Ivy brought out the silent storm in me. She knew wherever there were dark sky and wild winds lied a truth. and that is all she ever wanted, for everyone around her to embrace their storms and make them fall in love with their own violent winds.
She herself was like a drug. He got high off her laugh. Addicted to her smile. Eugene couldn't get enough of her. All at once they were madly, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other but for Ivy that wasn't enough. She admitted he had a little madness but she didn't care; she was magic and he was on edge. Robin was Ivy's creation, his image, his eager mind. Ivy did it all. she inspired him and with clean hands and a dirty mind, he struggles with sober thoughts as his thinking sinks into a pool of liquor.
this sweet taste was smoke
She sat on the rooftop
We sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning
Ivy walked away thinking id follow..
she goes a week at a time without sleeping, her insomnia is like being jacked up on uppers all night without any of the fun.
a secret keeper. lover of the night. and in the night is where I always met her