How perfect is Erin Wasson's place in Venice -- it's like her, embodied in a house.
And on a tangent, these shots remind me of my room in the big white Queenslander on the hill in Brisbane. One wall was entirely papered in drawings -- Bowie fan art and scrawled 3am reminders to myself -- gig flyers and setlists, wrist bands, receipts (2 x bottles of Jack, 2 x packs of cigarettes), expired medicine and cigarette packs, jewellery hung on hooks, and photos shot on a fisheye Holga. And a polaroid of the wall, pinned to the wall itself.
On the floor were the red snakeskin boots, the cowboy boots, the Doc Martens, the low-cut thrift-store men's boots with the chisel toe, cuban heel and the metal embellishments. The turquoise belt buckle, the silver jeans, the Radio Birdman and Def Leppard shirts, and the felt hat with the guinea fowl feathers in the band. A combined library of classics -- Irvine Welsh to Mark Twain, Don Delillio to Jane Austen, journalism textbooks to literary anthologies. A bunch on unfinished canvases.
Also on the floor was me, with a Jack-n-coke, a paintbrush, my dad's ripped Wranglers and a shoelace to hold them up.
And sitting on the bed was a girl, with tattooed arms that remind me of Erin's.