Best shot of the bunch. Which is not to say the others aren't worth a look.

Ah, California. You are awesome. I hope you don't fall into the sea as a result of your various natural, economic, and political disasters.

Belated photos from a delightful trip out to Napa for a friend's wedding:

My aaart continues. And while a lot has changed since my earlier forays, two things remain true: I keep a safe distance from representational art, and I damn near never use yellow. Not successfully, anyway. Always hate whatever I come up with and paint right over it.

Some recentish work:

. . . particularly in August -- when the pavement bakes, the air is a haze, and it is not possible to walk more than one block without smelling urine that you hope but don't believe is just from somebody's dog -- that this place is also beautiful.

An old photo I neglected to post at the time of its capture:

My cellphone's special assignment as go-to device for deliberately screwy panoramic pictures of the subway continues:

As noted before, my heart grew three sizes every time I passed Bad Apple Bail Bonds, where the guilt of clients was both presumed and essentialized with a brilliantly unsubtle name and logo.

In my secret soul, I knew nothing this marvelous would last forever. But I never expected it to become such a horror as this:

Shame is dead. So is the best logo ever. R.I.P., worm in retro prison garb. May your memory never fade.

As this blog transitions to photo-only mode, it may be time for me to finish editing my spring break photos already. The Portugal photos are slow going, but I've got the UK photos going at a steady clip. Some examples:

Trafalgar Square:

Kingsway:

Thames by night, variation 1 of a kajillion:

Buckingham Palace:

The westernmost point in Europe, the place my contact lens committed suicide by leaping into the sea, and one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. With one eye.

My long, sad camera drought is over.

I really need to replace my sadly defunct digital camera. I can't afford it, but on the other hand, I can't afford to have all of my artistic expression** filtered exclusively through my cameraphone.

** This no doubt sounds high-falutin'. I would like to note that calling it artistic expression in no way constitutes a statement as to the quality of what I produce.

"I did not put garbage in your yard . . . Now you listen to me! I'm Mephistopheles, Prince of Darkness! When I start harassing you, you'll know it."

I still haven't edited the photos from my trip out to Walla Walla. Or from my nephew's birthday. Or my Mom's birthday. Or . . . well, I've got a lot of editing to do.

To get started, some everyday shots from around town.

First, the best thing ever:

MAGIC.

Below are some informal shots I rattled off on my cameraphone. I've been using its panoramic function the anticipated way and also toying around with it to stitch together noncontiguous/in-motion photos, usually as I ride the subway.

My subway chronicles:

Simple:

Dynamic:

Also seen around:

The poles of the gun debate encapsulated:

More fun with sign disrepair:

A few weeks ago, my mom had to put the much beloved Dewey to sleep. I don't know why I haven't written about it until now, except that the Dewmaster deserves a better eulogy than my hectic schedule was permitting.

If you have ever visited my other site, you know that Dewey was, well . . . too dewy. This led to him living a life of accommodated exile where he was fed, sheltered, and cared for by our family, but disallowed entrance to the house. Instead, Dewey made the garage, the deck, and the yard his domains.

The thing was, though, that Dewey's defining characteristic was that he was happy--pretty much always. So this meant that when he was put outside, he cheerfully persisted in attempting to regain entrance to the house. For about 15 years. Every Iacono assembly-line formation to bring in the groceries was accompanied by cries from my mother of, "Watch him! WATCH HIM!"

In the early years of his banishment, Dewey's sunshiny outlook would invariably mean that, having gained access to the house, he would head straight to whatever area of the house would be most upsetting for my mom. (A favorite is the time we kids searched in a panic to hustle Dewey out of the house before our mother caught on . . . only to find him curled in a ball on my parents' bed. "Death wish," said my brother, and he may not have been wrong.)

In later years, he seemed to understand that he wasn't supposed to stay inside and, having gotten inside by the downstairs door, would walk along with us to the upstairs deck door and head out the moment it was opened. "My point being made . . .", said my brother (again).

The one thing I want to make clear is that despite his outside ways, we took very good care of this cat. One winter, when the yard was under about 15 inches of snow and Dewey was confined to the garage and walkable parts of our drive, my dad shoveled a path between the driveway and the deck so that he could have full access. The sight of the tip of Dewey's tail bopping along above the snow--his tail was almost always up, the better to communicate cheer and to whiz--is one of the most endearing memories I have of both Dewey and of my dad.

For my part, I bought Dewey a succession of snug, woolen cat beds that hugged close and plugged in for extra warmth. Winter's arrival was marked annually by a call from my dad telling us that, "Dewey's in his hat."

Even Dewey's misconduct tended toward the hilarious. I have held forth at length about how this cat taught me the important distinction between love and trust. I always welcomed him, let him follow me around, and played with him--but I never turned my back on him. The stories of those who did have a certain uniformity. The best was my mother's.

It was before Dewey was sent outside--it was, in fact, the clincher in that decision. I was in the kitchen, I think doing my homework, when I heard my mother yelling in the next room. I stepped out to see my mom standing up in front of the couch with a book in her hand, yelling at Dewey. Her summary, "I'm sitting here thinking, 'God, it's warm.' The son of a bitch pissed on me!"

And so Dewey was sent outside. But that changed little; he was an important part of our family all the same. I already miss him terribly.

The full album is done. Click below for more.

I have many, many, MANY photos of the Grand Canyon. But the most interesting ones are below: the ones of the storm that flew over us twice during our afternoon there. There were two strange things about it:

1. Because the canyon is so immense, we could see different, sunshiny weather seemingly not far away.
2. It frickin' TUNNELED. As Alanna said, "I'm no weatherologist, but isn't that a tornado?"

Incidentally, the dappling storm phenomenon put "King of the Mountain" by Midnight Oil in my head for the rest of the trip--"Bad storm coming, better run to the top of the mountain / Mountain in the shadow and light, rain in the valley below".

Stage 1: Looming overhead.

Stage 2: Tunneling.

Stage 3: No, seriously, it's tunneling. But note the sunshine in the distance on the lower left.

My sister and I just got back from a fun-filled trip to Las Vegas, the city where you cannot possibly be dressed inappropriately, in either direction. Brace yourself for a slow trickle of photos from our adventure. Sure, I could just load 'em up without culling or correcting, but then you, gentle reader, would have to sift through the crap. That is not as it should be. As I recently found myself crying out by the light of a tiki torch, "Not editing is wrong!"

And so, with that warning out of the way, we begin.

We spot these in some gift shop at the Mirage.

They want your soul.

I yelp, "Aiyee!" Alanna says, "You can't just leave those out! You have to put up a sign or something!"

Then Alanna tries to make one of them even more frightening. She fails.

Late last night as I headed home on the F train, I espied this gentleman:

The best part was that he was reading a book called The Greatness Guide at the time. While I can't claim to have read that volume, I have to believe that it contains no directive to be completely fucking disgusting on mass transit. But it's just possible that it fails to tell its readers not to do so. So please, readers of this undoubtedly fine work, consider this a supplemental chapter:

Thank you.

in inappropriate footwear, as is my wont.

As ever, click for more.

Because moonlight and the beginning of Spring are not to be wasted.

More pics if you click.

Twofold joy!

1. I finally took a picture of my favorite Brooklyn storefront: Bad Apple Bail Bonds.

Why do I love it so?
a. The presumption of guilt in the name. It's such an awesome way of attracting clients. "Yeah, asshole, we know you did it, and we don't care. Just sign here."
b. The worm in the apple is wearing striped prison garb and an olde tyme prison hat!!!

2. I was racing racing racing for the F train this morning--you enter my subway station by a ramp, go through turnstiles, then straight down stairs, so you can hear the train coming a good ways away--and despite my best efforts and speediest MetroCard swipe I heard the telltale chime of defeat as I was still descending the stairs to the platform. BUT! But but but! For no reason other than pure kindness, a fellow passenger stood in the doorway of the train as the doors closed so that I could squeeze past him and make the train. Oh, it was only a few seconds, but it made all the difference.

Because it was an F train, and who knows when the next one is coming.

And because it was an F train, and I had become convinced that its ineffable crappiness had made Machiavellian monsters out of all of us forced to rely upon it.

Oh, Subway Hero, you have restored a small bit of my faith in humanity. I have no choice; I must quote Lyle Lovett: I love everybody, especially you.

Yesterday I had a long, dumb, enraging post office ordeal. I'll spare you the details. But when I was waiting (and waiting . . and waiting) at the counter and I saw the markings of those who had walked the path before me, I felt no longer alone:

If you can't make them all out, the various scrawls are:

"This post office SUCKS!"
"Burn this place down and start over"
and
"I'M IN HELL"

There was also a sign from 1985 that I'm posting here as a public service. Remember, kids: if you're going to get busted for drugs, at least make enough money to have some half-decent artwork on the walls.

I did a rather spur-of-the-moment walk over the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday, and then just kinda kept going until I was most of the way home.

Pluses:
--There were flood lights on at South Street and at the base on the Brooklyn side, so the whole thing looked different than usual
--It was freezing (literally) so there weren't many people out
--I walked 4.5 miles!

Minuses:
--That 4.5 miles was in improper footwear.
--I left my digital camera in my friend's car on NYE, and I keep forgetting to get it back, so I only had my cell phone's camera to snap away with. All that dramatic lighting went to waste!

Results, such as they are:

Strange shadows on the first tower:

Lights between the two towers:

Being a strange shadow on the second tower. I love my hat:

Note: Does not contain actual poultry.

I have a friend who loves chickens, fondant, white cake, and having a less shitty time than she's been having lately. As a gesture at doing something small about the last of those, I combined the first three.

I never said I was an artiste. ("Shiny" is my friend's nickname.)

The good thing about fondant? Even when the forces of the F train conspire against you and you see the cake box drop to the ground in slow motion and land pretty much upside down? And ride the rest of the way to work full of sorrow, sure that all is lost? You may just find upon arriving and opening the box that all is perfectly fine within.

Shweet.

The sweetesst kitty in the world
Can be the meanest kitty in the world
If you make him that way

Well, he didn't actually get mean--note the retracted claws and how he even let me put him back in my lap--but man, Spike was quite adorably put out by having his ears goo-cleaned. Just to show that the Snarky One is not the only one who can, with an act of love, provoke an Eyeball of Rage. And, as a bonus, Flat Ears of Intense Displeasure.

Quite the revelation, I know.

Anyway, what was meant to be a quick stroll through Prospect Park turned out to be a very long photo session. Because all of the following things are wrong with me:

-- I can't just see a duck. I have to look for its duck and geese friends!
-- If I have a camera, I have to photograph all of them
-- When near a lake, i have to take photos every three feet as the vista changes
-- Similarly, during a sunset, I have to take photos every 45 seconds as the light changes
-- If the moon is out, I have to shoot it in every damn segment of the frame
-- If the moon is out amongst trees . . . oh, forget it, I go on forever
-- Like most photo nerds, I bracket my exposures
-- Unlike many photo nerds, I also go beyond bracketing and just screw around with exposures to see what I can make appear from seemingly drab subjects

Well, this walk through the park was basically the perfect storm of my photo spasticity. Ducks! A lake! Sunset! A moon visible before and after! I'm lucky to have emerged without smoke coming out of the lens.

The very much culled results can be found by clicking on one of the ducks below:

True story.

But I should still remember to take my digicam or SLR around with me. This is getting ridiculous.

Pics from yesterday's walk through Prospect Park.

The lake.

One of the bigass trees by the Long Meadow.

When the craigslist apartment hunting must pause and I'm in need of a wind-down activity before slumber, the hobby this summer has been (as seen once before) making photos look like comic book panels. Stupid? Sure. But FUN.

The most recent samples are below; there are many, many more where these came from.

My interior monologue lately has been going back and forth between "This really sucks, I am so tired, and I don't know what I'm going to do" and "Take a deep breath and stop being such a spaz. Things are going to be fine. They could even be great!"

As mine is not a particularly sophisticated artistic sensibility, I think the paintings I've made lately (two samples below) are showing the polarity almost directly. Subtlety, complexity, imagery . . . fuck that shit.

The somber:

And the sparkly:

Yep, I painted bright colors and put beads on them. Shiny, shiny beads, like in your first-grade recess on rainy days. (Detail below.)

This regression leads me to suspect that my calmer, more optimistic impulse is, in fact, completely stupid and possibly dangerous. We shall see.

My cameraphone, while possessed of some reasonable limitations, is startlingly good for, you know, a bonus feature on a cellphone.

For fun times with the W600's panoramic mode, see below. Some images I intensified in Photoshop, but all images were stitched together by the camera, not on the computer (hence some imperfections). I also didn't do more than one effect on any image. And all of these are half-size.

Pretty damn cool.

Unfiltered images:

The full spectacularrrr:

to get my picture taken with Ricky Bobby.

Sadness.

A friend of mine with whom I am engaged in mutual blogstalking (when you're as shitty a correspondent as I am, that's what things eventually devolve to) noted that she was getting a little worried each time I appeared in her RSS feed; it's been all homeless harassers, suicidal strangers, and dead pets.

To combat the downcast vibe, I present some more pulled sugar art. I won't bother showing the whole cake it ended up on, since it wound up very similar to a previous one. But it was oh so pretty and kinetic before it was placed.

Emmett, an adorable, fluffy, slightly cross-eyed cat who harbored a great devotion to food and my mom, died today. He was almost 15, which is a good long life for a cat, and to the extent that complete comfort and adoration make for happiness, his was a happy life. But at the end he was suffering so much that it was just terrible to see. So my mom had to take him, probably her favorite cat in a lifetime that has always had at least one cat in it, to be put down.

Rather than dwell on his death, though, I want to celebrate his finest hour: the time he saved my dad's life. It's true! Read on.

The Rashomon of Emmett
My dad's version, via IM the morning of the incident.

Please allow for the confusion of crossing IMs; we kinda talked that way online. Also note that my dad wasn't yelling, he just had a cramped laptop and would hit the caps lock key by accident a lot.

My mom's version, via an email to the family that afternoon:

When your neighbors are blaring salsa music until 5 am (no bullshit!), perhaps you don't mind. Perhaps you are out having your own carnaval until sunrise and don't even notice. But that is not how I am. After trying in vain to sleep through it (it is literally 7 feet from my bedroom--can't be done), calling the fuzz (can take hours and there's no guarantee of aid) and trying to read through it (HA!), I settled on Dumb Activities. I touched up some paintings, watched some cable, and did some photo excavation.

To make a long story short: I now have my first album cover. Now I just have to acquire some talent, write some songs, and record them.

Also used a larger version of the comic-style image in my placeholder page at the still-forming adairdevil.com.

As once before, I'm posting some of the paintings I've been making. I have no illusions that they are objects of great beauty, but just making them and their unphotographed companions has been doing a lot to keep me sane, so I regard them with affection. And I actually kinda like the blossom one all on its own.

These are gradually being used to alleviate my apartment's bare wall problem, which just shows how nice and encouraging my roommates are.

Note: The fourth one down has the unfair advantage of having been used as a test subject when I was practicing with my new tripod. All the others were snapped in standard half-ass fashion. And in defense of the last one, there's a whole thing with iridescent paint blended into the softer green stripes that ain't showing up at all. I . . . I don't know.

I've gone over the bridge a number of times in the last year, but haven't done the dedicated photowalking/blogging. As part of a larger "yes, everything went to hell last year, but so goddamn what" campaign, the copious photographing resumes.

Yesterday's tack: underexposing to bring color to a blah, washed out sky.

A long time ago, I got a voicemail from a woman named Naia who was looking for another woman (named Kimba) so that custody of a child could be transferred. Now, my voicemail greeting very clearly says "Adair". Not "Kimba." So it should be obvious to any caller at that stage that there is no Kimba to be found. That was problem one. Problem two was that even if I had wanted to call the angry-sounding woman back and tell her the mistake she'd made, I couldn't--her number was blocked from caller ID.

So I just ignored it.

Then, a while later, I got a follow-up voicemail. A voicemail of such surpassing brilliance that I saved it every three weeks for OVER A YEAR. It's not high quality, but I've finally managed to digitize it for you, my reading public:

If embed fails: The Glory of Naia

Haven't blogged in a long time, mostly 'cause when it takes about three hours a day to summon the will to live, there just isn't any time left over for self-absorbed Internet rambling.

But I did some real rambling in the snow today, and it was fun. Click the dog for more:

I won! I won! I more than salvaged the sugar project. I learned from this morning's green experiment and tried again, this time in amber and this time actually trying to make the pull shapes. I was even able to make one with pulls on both ends that wrapped around the cake (see 9 o'clock on the photo below and the piece overlapping it--they're really the same). Fuck yeah! Looks like stained glass, burns like stained glass if mishandled, but oh, much better results when you eat it.

It was all I could do not to start punching into the air, screaming, "IN YOUR FACE!!!"

But I managed.

One of the weirder side effects of pretty much being forced out of my mind earlier this year has been a notable uptick in my craftiness quotient.

I always liked doing art, but I was never particularly good at it; I'm very uncoordinated and just can't make the pen/pencil/paintbrush/etc move in the right way to make the line/shape/etc I'm seeing in my head. So since the end of high school, I've more or less stuck with doing design on computers; I'm not a genius there, either, but on a computer the gap between talent and diligently acquired skill is much narrower. I can fake it more easily.

But being messed up has made me dissatisfied with that alone. Ever since the roommate art night in September, I've been on a hands-on craftiness bender, and the casualties are mounting.

Below are badly photographed (not false modesty, I really didn't bother to photograph them properly, it would take longer than they're worth) paintings I have made, each taking anywhere from 20 minutes to three. whole. hours. Oh yes, my artistic devotion, it rivals the masters.

These are by no means all of them. Maybe half or three fifths. These tiny things are littering my apartment. I can't believe my roommates haven't maced me yet, or made me eat my oil paints. Instead, they joke about my new hobby and make kind noises about the rectangles they find drying on the bricks outside our door.

As oil painting was the absolute nadir of my high school art classes--I could NOT make it work--I don't know why I find it so calming now. But it is; the simple process of moving the brush over the canvas is immensely soothing, and then (several days of drying later) I have a block of color to throw on the wall.

And, yes, they're all pretty much blocks of (sometimes iridescent) color, except where I threw in scraps of a photo or some plastics I got for about a buck at this neato shop on Canal St. The exception is the horse I tried to paint for my roommate's birthday (she wanted a pony, and since we can't keep a real one in the apt., I tried to paint her one), which I think will make eminently clear why I stick with abstract painting. I SUCK AT REPRESENTATIONAL ART. At least with swirls and grains the viewer doesn't know how off I was from what I intended.

Aaaand I'm still messing around with Photoshop. I sat down to crop a photo of myself to update my Friendster page and, the moment I opened the file, I immediately began fucking with it instead of just correcting levels and shrinking it like non-spastic people do. Still haven't updated my profile! But I have two divergent results from the same photo:

The wall in our living room was too bare for too long, and my roommate Nina decided to do something about it: when she found a gigantic painting on the street, she took it. There was only one problem.

It was ugly. Really, really ugly. Not the type of ugly that bespeaks experimentation or a willingness to challenge the audience, but the type of ugly that bespeaks never having mastered perspective. Or shading. Or . . . anything. It was a big, faded, ugly, badly painted pasture.

But as luck would have it, I came into a big stash of oil paint (primarily ultramarine blue and white) some time ago. So, we scheduled our first ever Roommate Art Night, armed ourselves with paintbrushes and magazines, and set forth to create our masterpiece.

The collective result, so far (it ain't finished yet):

On the whole, it looks surprisingly cool. I take the blame for that black and white spot in the middle that's mucking things up; it was a picture of a rat, and it just didn't work out. It'll get covered before we're done.

For a brief activity--maybe an hour and change--it was pretty great. You can also tell a lot about the dispositions in the apartment by our respective contributions. For instance:

Nina is funny and open (hence the flow and the O face picture selection):

Caitlin is cheerful and bright:

And I am depressing:

Note: I did NOT paint that face; it's a clipping of an ad for Divers/cité that I ripped from one of Caitlin's magazines. Likewise, Nina found the guy and his fish, I just decided to put it there. The Happy Bunny card was mine, though.

Other pics of the Madison trip are here. Luckily for you, I took no pictures of the conference I was attending. Otherwise, it'd be all fluorescent light, strange hair, and distressingly unsupportive bras as far as the eye can see.

My observations on the city itself:
-- Drivers are quite courteous to pedestrians
-- The lake shores are lovely
-- Lots of blue eyes
-- Nice farmers' market

All in all, a nice place with (going by a brief sampling and posters) fun music. And it was thoroughly salutary to be outside of my daily life for a spell.

My personal assignment to see the same thing in different ways continues. (So I am ignoring the suggestion that Monkey Pants, aka my sister, made in comment to my previous entry. But not out of spite.) Bless Daylight Savings for making it easier.

Also, Veronica Mars was awesome last night.

. . . of ways to take photos of the same place without taking the same photo. Good thing I hit this week's walk around sunset instead of when it was already dark.

This had the added benefit of getting me home in time to see the contestants on America's Next Top Model lose their shit after erroneously assuming that one woman's rash was--what else?--flesh-eating, pneumonia-causing bacteria. That was some great TV. Thank you, Tyra Banks. May you go from strength to strength.

Anyway, before I settled down to bask in ANTM's awesomeness, I did my weekly walk home over the bridge. Stay tuned for next week, when my increasingly desperate bids for photo variation will probably have me taking photos of angry, oncoming cyclists in the bike lane.

Ah, the moon over Brooklyn. It is like the moon over any other place--beautiful--only you can't get a photo of it without cars wrecking the shot. It continues to surprise me how much I edit out of my perception when I'm looking without a camera; I know the cars are there, of course, but I see the brownstones, trees, and moon. Put a lens on it and BAM! It's crapass Corollas for miles.

Anyway, following DeGraw from Fourth to Fifth Aves. on my way home Friday, I made a valiant, traffic-defying attempt to capture the lovely evening.

Mixed results.

Pardon the ripped-off Adrienne Kennedy quotation. Especially since its only applicability is that all of the photos I took on today's Brooklyn Bridge walk were black and white compositions.

We've got yer basic moon through the cables shot:

And yer folks walking over the bridge with Brooklyn behind them and the Manhattan Bridge to the north:

Aaaaand we've got the first album cover for The Adairdevils. (Album forthcoming once musical talent attained.)

Though my previous entry is dated the 13th, the photos were taken walking home on the 11th. Thus my walking over the bridge today constitutes adherence to my recently announced policy; I'm good until at least next Friday. Considering the sad fate of other resolutions I have made--I will only read books that challenge me! I will be a better correspondent! I will not plot coups!--this is remarkable progress indeed.

Fewer photos, though, and only one worth posting. It was cold, dammit.

At least once a week, I will walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge from at least the City Hall stop (I don't think I can make myself go past Canal Street and remain sane). Sure, the photos I take will be shaky, since I haven't mastered setting the shutter speed on my (recently acquired) digital camera, there are cars rumbling beneath, and, for now at least, it's fucking freezing without gloves. But it's one of the few places to be thoroughly in the city without a full-blown crowd around, and with proper timing, I'm there as the sky changes colors. Even on rather crappy weather days, as below, it's beautiful and keeps the psychosis at bay.

The Gates were every bit as cool as they were intended and reputed to be. And since we went into the park up in Harlem, the crowd was merely bustling rather than insane.

I got a swatch, so I think I may now consider myself the object of near-universal envy.

Photos here.

I'm going to the archives for this, because it never fit anywhere on my site, yet is too awesome to languish unseen.

Back a few years ago, when I was an even lowlier minion than I am now, a man wrote me an email asking for the pub date of a book; being a good minion, I told him. He then cc'd me on every email he sent to anyone else about the book--because I must know that my word was going out! I must not lie about pub dates! Because I have nothing better to do!

In any event, he had some address book difficulties, and would often send me or cc me on emails meant for others; the first email below is a good example. Then, one day . . one magic, shining day when I came back from the Christmas holiday break to my cube, I found the third email below waiting for me. And such was its awesome power that I actually yelped, clapped one hand over my mouth, waved the other one at my cube neighbor so he'd come look, and jumped a foot in the air while sitting--all at once.

I don't dare paste in the text. I don't like the google keywords for which this page would suddenly be a result. Just read below!

If you're like me and want this on your office wall at all times, click on the image for a larger, more printable version.

I'm posting what I call my Speed Design Challenge 2004 entry. I don't know how content I am with the result, but I'm kinda proud of the mere fact of getting it done.

The challenge: create an image (no text) for a play that communicates: infidelity; edge; a particular waterfall in Minneapolis; the general aesthetic of a particular play company (that aesthetic being sort of avant garde and technologically advanced, but deliberately not sleek). This image is of unspecified size but must be 300 dpi and reasonably large.

Your resources: whatever you currently have on your computer that is not copyright somebody else.

Time: your lunch hour, 'cause this is not your actual job.

This is what I came up with, in its three different color variation b/c I didn't know what it would be used for. Obviously the original was larger, and I know this is flawed. But hey: ONE HOUR.

I also get a kick out of the fact that the image I used was originally from another play this company mounted, and was actually a son about to touch his dead mother's face (second photo).