art

My Year in Mobile Shots

December 28, 2022

It is my firm hope that 23 will see this site thriving. To be perfectly honest, there isn’t anymore shit that can happen. This site is needed - I know that.

Bo Kenneth Sylvest Jakobsen // State of the World Visual Address // Two Blind, One Dead.

January 19, 2021

Caption on face mask reads: “Protect the weak”.

A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.

The 7th one is by Bo Kenneth Sylvest Jakobsen. It is a provocative street art comment on COVID19. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d l ove to hear from you.

To Blinde En Død (Beskyt de svage)(Skråplan)-2.jpg

Caption on face mask reads: “I was lonely”.

Niels Fabæk // State of the World Visual Address #6 // Silence of the Urbex

December 18, 2020

The 6th one is by Niels Fabæk. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you.

This contribution mainly plays out as a gallery. In 2021 I am planning articles on concert photography - Niels will be one of the contributors.

This post is curated by Zaar Riisberg - the artist sent an entire folder of really good shit. We could have posted more. Make sure to catch Niels Fabæk’s concert photography here in the spring of ‘21.

Ron Rubenstein // State of the World Visual Address #4

October 05, 2020

The 4th one is by Ron Rubenstein. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. RR is a bit of an enigmatic character who takes the shots none of us do. He hails from the US and has a tv personality president. Not sure where you go to catch RR these days - last I saw, he was on IG. But I cannot confirm that as I deleted my account. It seems to be that people who lend their artworks to AB, do not post a lot of other places. If you want to see something really lush by RR go here (these are some of my favorite photographies in existence).

Graham O'Neill // Belle Époque Denied // State of the World Visual Address #3

September 16, 2020

April 23: The Sadness of the Unseen, Leaving

The 3rd one is 3 shots by Graham O’Neill. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. GO is a father, family man and photographer with a progressively poetic soul. He hails from England and has a clown for a prime minister.

For more on Graham, you can catch his work on 500px, IG and Kujaja.

Check out #1 here and #2 here

Henrik B. Clausen // Benched // State of the World VIsual Address #2

September 02, 2020

The second one is a shot by Henrik B. Clausen. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. HBC is a film director and videographer from Denmark.

For more on HBC check his Vimeo

Check out #1 here

Christoffer Fabæk Kjær // The Speaker // State of the World Visual Address #1

August 28, 2020

The first one is a drawing by Christoffer Fabæk Kjær. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you.

For more on CFK check his IG.

The Newslarder #3

August 27, 2020

The state of the world project starts tomorrow (Friday). They will be stand alone posts for the most. There are tons of other articles that need to go up, but we have one editor here, and I have been lackluster, battling a few things, as I have touched on before. That is nearing an end - which is good, because I am tired of being hampered by unimportant shit.

What’s important in this day and age, I hear you say? Well, art, satire, humour, critique - now more than ever. When was the need for creativity and critique ever bigger?. We need to teach people to question things again. In schools, we should be teaching kids to question things, not be obedient fucking parrots with a credit card.

Just Art has been updated - go take a look, if you don’t believe me. We are also contemplating more on mobile/smartphone photography, but the ‘mobile’ section is not coming back - just like the project starting tomorrow, we want to have a dialog with people, so more avenues for interaction are planned, and no, it will not involve SOME, because fuck SOME.

In the words of Captain Black Adder: wobble, wobble.

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // Other People’s Cunts

July 22, 2020

Mural in Horsens of a young girl reading by light in a fantasy setting. Some artistic soul felt that it lacked something.

There’s a certain kind of photographer that seems to have aesthestic urge to shoot what other people have created. I’ve often run into the sentiment, that only those that cannot create copy or steal. Real artists steal I am told. I disagree, real artists inspire. Not only others, but themselves as well.

At the risk of being a smidge philosophical, we all shoot or depict stuff that is something in and of itself. The interesting thing is what you do with it. What is motif or portrait, if you don’t work with it? Natural? Not necessarily. The artist sees the potential in the amalgamation. She knows there’s not even light, but only energy. She knows how to convey and invoke. She doesn’t leave them much, which is the greatest gift an artist can leave behind. In the end the ‘physical manifestation’ matters little. A real artist gets in your head.

Art is a drug, just like every other sensory input is, and reality is a chemistry soup ripe with photon flies. Whether you are art directing a videogame, shooting photography, writing a screenplay or indeed shooting a movie. When it comes to conveying it all, it is hardly ‘your story’ or told by you - it’s always a work in progress, building on previous work. The greatest story ever told, as far as we know, is not the Bible, nor is it Star Wars. It is the story of humanity.

Everything is a collaboration - one thought gives sustenance to another spark of insight with no fear of failing. Or, indeed, inspiration fails, we start looking inward and dissolve as a race and a factor in reality. Your choice, really.

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // La Vie

May 21, 2020

I recently moved to a new city. You need your own haunts when you come to a new city. There’s a little café in the city - it’s called La Vie, and yes, the owner is a francophile. But his genuine wish, is just for people to talk, mingle - boheme, comes to mind. Libertines would frequent the place as well. Interesting conversations, wine, pastis and art on the walls. Martin, the owner, tries to let local talent exhibit - and often, the air is thick with discussions on literature and art. I’ve not spotted absinthe yet, but there’s probably a bottle somewhere.

I had gone by the place a few times, and always stopped to check it out. But it turned out a friend of mine was good friends with the owner. The first time I visited, I lost track of time, got slightly drunk and was discussing novels, thinkers and the general shit state of the world. It’s the sort of place that chokes out your inner nihilist, and makes you want to be part of a group again.

Not surprisingly, a place like that has been hit hard by the corona. So they did some nice artwork as ‘shares’ that you could buy. I was kind of decided on this becoming ‘my place’ to hang out, so my fingers are crossed. Now, La Vie has been allowed to open again - so if you ever visit the city of Horsens, make it a point to visit La Vie!

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // I am Special pt 1: Bland on the Run

June 08, 2019

I did some shots for a band my friend was playing in. Little did I know, that my friend was being fucked over by these twats. My friend is the most gifted guitarist I have ever met - a truly brilliant maverick musician. The band was doing old punk songs - in my opinion, something vastly below the skillset of my friend, but not the rest of the guys in the band - whom I really liked. Turned out they were doucebags. Small men as it were. I have met my share of them, trying to stab me in the back, sully my name in front of others, or just ganging up on you in a really vile manner. Why do the rest of us have to contend with other people’s insecurities?

Most shots were painstakingly done, initially run through Lightroom, Camera Raw, Photoshop and carefully finished with just the right offset - EACH AND EVERY SHOT. On top of this, I payed my own way at a one of their concerts and gave them the shots. Top dollar work, and the best pictures the band had - and they are still using them. It is good work, even though, it was pro bono or payed very little. Why? Because I work passionately for people I like and very professionally for people that pay. I value my personal integrity - after all, I have to live with myself.

So once again, people of mediocre talent are allowed to stifle those of real talent. This is a problem for this world - the envy of the truly bland. ‘I am special’ the individual seems to cry out. It always leaves me with a ‘prove it’ echoing through my brain. Instead, most will scale the body of others, until they reach the shoulders and then stand on them.

It is the same behaviour that made me hide, curtail my output or indeed control it a lot more. I have hated being an inspiration for others, and I have felt exasperated at times, when people more or less said ‘so inspirational, keep it coming’. Fuck you. I would rather not have an output than inspire people that never go out of the box themselves. The excitement for me is creation, exceeding boundaries - I want to look behind the veil, I want to be on the path to the palace of wisdom.

I do not know what path everyday farts like the ones that fucked over my friend are on. All I know is, that when the people of talent have had enough, everyone else is left up shit creek without a paddle but a ton of followers, either payed for or collected under false pretences. I am not even talking about ‘influencers’ - we all know they are a bunch of cock suckers - no, I am talking about people and artists of talent that chose to find a template for success, rather than being true to themselves and let the subconscious grab their aim and steer them in.

With this, I open the floor to others - past and present contributors or indeed readers - to enter this theme ‘I am Special’ - would you like to write part II or III? I have more instalments myself, but I do so love the yumminess of concerted and collaborated efforts.

So, what else is fucking new?

June 02, 2019

Well, we have turned About into a sort of splash page which, hopefully, will make for easier navigation for first time visitors. We are looking into self upload on the square space platform, to make it easier for a contributor to autonomously manage their output, making for a more active site, but still curated and debated - this must never become something akin to photo sharing sites - I am pretty sure we all would prefer obscurity to a scenario like that.

But we/I are not funded by anyone or have sources of income. We are basically two contributors at the moment, a number that needs to increase - but we also need to branch out, maybe with a youtube channel. I have personally been slow to do things, but that aspect is nearing an end, as I will put most of my personal shit up on AB and nowhere else.

So we are considering funding, but we do not feel confident that we have enough of a concept yet to start using Patreon for example, or even try and find some start up money. Our branding is reluctant, and it always will be - in short, we do not even want people living on the surface of life to follow the site or contribute.

We want a paradigm shift in how you consume art, popular culture and the like. Do not just scratch the surface, break it instead, stick your arm in and yank something out - anything - be it black, dark and nasty or indeed white, lofty and positive. Real art is not easy, it is fucking hard - it breaks you and kills you only to build you up again, it flies in the face of corruption and never aids it - you want proof? Take Salvador Dali, the only thing that exonerates this fascist asshole (he was a prick of a human being), is his incredible art. Ezra Pound, HP Lovecraft etc - the list is long of people that partially did not know any better, or were just bad apples. That will never keep me from reading them on my terms, or marvel at their output. Such is the power of art.

/Zaar Riisberg

Lasse Fischer // The People of Plenty

May 23, 2019

There is enough, there is more than enough, actually there is plenty of it - indeed there is too much. We shift our limbs as if they were itching. The small stretch between us and it is is the greatest source of pain we have ever known. The cursed e… — There is enough, there is more than enough, actually there is plenty of it - indeed there is too much. We shift our limbs as if they were itching. The small stretch between us and it is is the greatest source of pain we have ever known. The cursed earth between us and it is soon to be swallowed up by our heels. We have longed for too long, and now it is there, a mount of plenty sitting on the horizon. The moans start rising from the group, we start eyeing each other. Each swollen calf and thigh is now weighed and analysed, and some start licking their lips, as they realize that they belong in the front of the group. A small moment of breathless silence. Then we start running towards it; mouths foaming and feet breaking against the lumpy ground. Our faces contract in agony, but somehow we keep going. Skin tears open and nails are torn off. We don't stop. The mere thought of what awaits us jolts our muscles and joints and keeps us going.
We arrive; pushing and kicking each other.
A cheek is torn off and the fleshy lump flails in between the conqueror’s teeth. The blood from the gash in his opponents face slathers his body and mixes with his sweat making him a pink, reddish spectacle amidst the sea of brown and white flesh.
We dive in, head first, feet first, whatever is the nearest it doesn't matter. Many of the misfortunates end up at the bottom of the meaty pile. They do not scream in agony though, they raise their voices in rejoice for being so near, so in touch with the plenty, even when the weight reaches such a tremendous amount, that their innards are forced outwards, do they scream in pleasure. The ones on top are crawling over the masses of bodies, moving *and* still, and continue further into the living landscape.

The beginning of the pileup has started to take color. A mixture of beige and red has stained the naked bodies as they slip and slide among each other, while piece of man and woman gets squished between their toes.

Some of those who have found a spot of their own defend it relentlessly, aggressively attacking anyone, who dares near their share; piling cadavers around their newly founded camp.

Others smear themselves with the lot of it and let the surrounding mouths lick it off from every surface of their bodies, returning the favor later on, making them easily recognizable, as the colors of beige and red are scarce on their huge canvases, with the pale skin standing out in striking contrast. Otherwise it is only the shine from grinding teeth that can be distinguished in the homogeneous crowd. And they smile. Their grins seem unnatural and painfully forced; stretching the skin to the absolute limit; not blinking, as they would then miss out on looking at it.

We are all on all fours, all screaming, all smiling.

We are being filled with it, surrounded by it, and consumed by it, as we ourselves consume it

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // I Hate Being an Empath

May 09, 2019

I have just shot a confirmation after spending an evening and morning with some adorable kids. I jump on a bus, and after a few stops a group of young people enter. A smell of beer and old cigarettes accompany them, and one guy in particular catches my attention. He sits across from me. He is jittery and not a day past 25 years of age. An infinite sadness starts to build inside me mixed with the sense that I have seen this kid before. They are all in somewhat good spirits, but my eyes still get wet. I see him whip out a small bottle of ‘Hot n’ Sweet’ (sweet, cheap liquor), and he knocks it back one time. I want to scream. I want to cry - I want to take everything he is fighting and put it on me. I am 43 - so fuck me. This kid, and I just know this, will not see 40 - maybe not even 30. My mind screams at him in silence: ‘who abandoned you’? ‘What asshole father left you to drift by yourself’?

They reach their stop, which, of course, is Mølleparken. Lots of people in Aarhus go there, however, you can be sure the drunks and addicts are out as well in the park - every damn day during the summer. As they leave I see his bag is full of ‘Hus Forbi’ - a paper produced by the homeless in Denmark. That is how I know him - he camps out selling them at the place where I used to shop on Vesterbro Torv. I get another flash of his face, and it hits me. I saw him getting harassed by a ‘normal’ woman in the inner city one time. It was classic - she told him to get a job, and he was trying to tell her that it was not that easy, that there were no jobs, and certainly not any for him. He had been begging which pisses people of. And now I know why I remember him so vividly. That day, I walked right up to him, past the woman and pressed a 100kr bill in his hand - he looked at me in total disbelief, I turned, flipped off the woman, gave her a sarcastic smile, and went on my merry way.

But it stings that it has to be this way. It tears at my being and it violates what we are about. We have no dignity if we let our own suffer. How can we fight for a place in the cosmos, when we do not even have the heart to fight for our own - much less animals, nature or the planet.

I wish I did not care. I wish I could care less. I wish, I wish, I wish. I will often question if it is just pretentiousness and subsequently second guess my own apparatus and heart. I will accuse myself of being a manipulative asshole that only feels this way, because it makes me feel righteous, special or good about myself. But I know it is not true. I am an empath and I hate every second of it. It does not make me feel good. A recently acquired friend shoved it in my face ‘oh, you’re an empath, that’s no fun, I mean, it’s lovely, but it’s horrible’. She was spot on. She often is. Unfortunately for her, it is a case of taking one to know one.

Some of us have big hearts. But it may come as a surprise to many of you, that it is a horrible burden. A bird hit the windshield at my parents, and I could not rest before I knew it was ok (80% of small birds die either way). I was passing the corridor in the house, what turns out to be a small moth flies toward me, and in the dark I instinctively swat it softly. When I get the lights on, the small fella is running in circles on the floor. That absolutely destroys me. You see? It is a fucked up way to live.

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // Easter Promises

April 22, 2019

Do not look for a fight with the enemy. Beg God for peace and security. But if you do end up facing the enemy, then show endurance, and remember that the gates of paradise lie in the shadow of the sword. - Muhammad

Does this sound like a religion that goes looking for a fight to you? It says what every other ideology has spouted, what every national state has imbued in their citizens. Protect your loved ones, seek peace and only fight if you must - and then reminded them that there is honor in defending those that cannot fend for themselves.

Suicide bombers are suicide bombers, terrorism is terrorism and radical is radical - they are not married to one ideology, and are, rather, just examples of how broken we are as a race. We just celebrated Easter, a Christian holiday for a man that Islam recognises as a prophet. So what is the problem really? Same as in what we have just seen in respect to the (former) conflict in Ireland. Some people just want to see the world burn. In Denmark we have an idiot wrapping the Quran in bacon and BBQ’ing it. You can have one guess as to how our media handles it. Exactly, it is all they talk about. A piece of shit provocateur with no following to speak of, but he gets a ton of media coverage.

So here is my message for Easter: pull you head out of media in general and make up your own damn mind - chances are, that you are smarter than journalists anyway. Sod media personalities, journalists and ‘celebs’ - do not let them define your outlook.

Truth is not out there - you have to take life from instance to instance in constant analysis.

Zaar Riisberg // What's Life About

April 03, 2019

I am moving. In so many ways, but also physically. Going through stuff, I come across an old journal. A lot of the entries surprise me, and not only the ones laced with ‘weltschmerz’, but also some moments of clarity mixed in with frustration. In 1997 I wrote, that I still had no idea what life was about.

I still wrestle with that question. But I guess I found some part of the answer - since, for me, it is about being a factor for others and an inspiration. My role is to tell you ‘it is going to be alright’ or ‘I got you, do not worry’. I have been frustrated, because that was taken from me. But I will not -again- examine what that cost me. Rather, I would like to examine what life is about.

Your answer most likely differs from mine, which fits well with Friedrich Nietzsche and Albert Camus’ notion that generally speaking, there is no higher purpose. In this meaninglessness it falls to the individual to create its own meaning in the face of this. It also sits well with the fact that no two living entities experience reality the same way.

For most people that dot the landscape of this amalgamation of rock and dirt their children become what their life is about. Not only due to the feeble nature of our offspring the first years, and the need for constant nurture - but also because life stops being about your choices and what you want. Yet others decide on realising themselves understanding that kids are not an option. There is a blessing in both.

But one thing, I am pretty sure of, and biology backs me up on this one - we are supposed to care for each other, not seek vilification or division or push people in need away. If you agree with this, I am quite sure you also feel like you are constantly repeating yourself when you write or talk to people. I know I do.

And I still wonder, to the point of frustration, why, when life is that easy - when being good or honourable takes less effort than scheming to manipulate, when sharing trumps hoarding and greed, when helping feels better than fucking people over - why be an arse?

I find it ironic that I am going on about honour, but even more so, with my life long resistance to religion - I find it piss funny that I am the one going on about morals.

Kids and animals make it worthwhile for me, and more importantly, the people I love. My thirst for knowledge is what keeps me going and gives me drive.

What about you? What is your answer?

(you can comment as a guest on AB posts, you don’t have to log in)

Lasse Fischer // On the Subject of The Moment

March 27, 2019

There is a certain something about arriving in a new geography. The mountain top you haven’t seen before has a certain shimmer to it, and you swear that the sun never broke through the clouds quite like it did just now. The opera of the world is to be found in places where you let it slide underneath your skin, out where the need to put up your guard dissipates.

Open roads and sweeping fields of rock and ice; they find their way through the pores of your skin; they seep into your bones and drive away the ache. It feels reinvigorating, it feels honest, it feels grandiose. Shadows moves on boulders as the car cuts through the landscape. In the horizon a church spire grows over a still lake. Vulcanized rubber makes a steady roll, and a gnashing of gravel accompanies the silent hum stemming from underneath the hood of the car, and you start to remember why you keep a camera nearby. Pick it up, try to capture the moment. It doesn’t succeed. The moment is already gone, it was meant to be something fleeting this time. Clouds drift lazily around in the sky. It doesn’t matter. You put down the camera.

A dreamlike haze has descended on the passengers in the vehicle. Seeing the world through a haze is an oft-forgot tool. It dulls the senses just enough to let the sharp edges turn round and soft. The heavy knots that tie you to the crust of the earth have loosened and slips off your wrists. As soon as the bonds hit the floor of the car the though tears itself free, and your body starts to feel light. You can see the thought leave through the window next to you and speed off to frolic on the nearest mountain top from where it dives into a milky white cloud. And the road, the road with its yellow lines stretches itself through the windshield and leaves out the back.

The car slowly dissolves until it isn’t there anymore, and you hover in the midst of nature, suspended over asphalt and snow in the hum from the motor, and then you blink again, breaking the hallucination. There is something to be learned here, there is a truth in this, and it is to be felt. This truth is not to be put on the torture rack of analysis and discussion; it is not to have its soul plucked from its chest through confession. It is quiet and dignified, and it slips through your fingers as the car follows a bend in the road.

The ocean sneaks up on you from the right. White foam dances on top of the wave before it is thrown ashore and its bubbles are left to burst on the black sand of Iceland. You step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Making your way to the water the wind whips your face, making it blush, feeling tiny needles on your skin. Deep breath, long exhale. The cold burrows underneath your coat from the outside seeking to warm itself with your body heat. You raise the camera and try to catch the clash and dance.

In the city, darkness slowly sets upon people, and the street lamps flicker on, spreading their yellow cones over blankets and signs. In front of the police station, you hear the drums of the poor and forgotten.

Lasse Fischer // Window Pains

February 25, 2019

Come closer, squish your face against the windowpane, and let me trace the pale outline of your cheek with my finger.

Doesn’t it feel safe?
It does for me.

And when you remove your face from the glass you leave behind a greasy stain, and I can continue fingering your outline for hours on end until you return.
Sometimes I pace around my room in the dark while I frantically, and with a harsh jerking of the neck, look at the window to check it every time I pass.

It glows with a cool blue light, and it is filled with outlines of the faces, the faces I caress.
Whenever I lie on my side in the bed, with my legs tugged up under me, resting my head on my stretched out arm, and my hand in a ninety degree angle, I do not surrender willingly to sleep.
I keep my eyes on the glass.

I lie in fear of blinking.
I lie in fear of absence of the light.

When I finally close my eyes there is nothing but an unending parade of rooms.
The faces do not press themselves up against the windows in here, in here I am alone, and I have no outlines to trace. I am separated from the light and the glass by the lids in front of my eyes.

Bathed in sweat I awake.

I keep my mouth open, ready to scream, but nothing ever comes out. My breathing is too shallow to create the explosion, so instead I chew on the air, like a fish lying on shore. Trying to make sure that the mechanics aren’t broken I feel for the rising motion of my chest, resting my hands on my ribs. The sensation of touch confirms that the function is maintained.

The blue window attracts more faces.
Their breaths fog op the glass.

‘Something is not right. Something seems off.’ The thought is fleeting, and even though the feeling lingers longer than the thought it too soon dissolves over the faces in the blue light. I take my hands off my increasingly protruding ribs and press them against the light making two stark silhouettes of something human on top something less than that.

There is something between the face and my hands, something that draws my finger to the cheek every time. It pulls on my elbow, it commands my sinew, and it makes my brain fire its neurons. I slip my tongue over my lips and spread saliva on the dried skin, feeling the rough edges as the organ goes from one end of the orifice to the other.

Nothing else lies outside my room and the surface of the window.
I continue living, forever haunted by the thought that the blue light one day might fade and disappear.

Artballistics Editorial // We are more than Photography

February 17, 2019

We are about process, art, critique. Critique is needed to create better. We are about video as well as stills, about canvas as well as technique. We hold each other to a higher standard, while we seek to appeal to not only a few. The focus of Artballistics is the ‘worthwhile’, the opposite of thumbing, as it were. Just like sex, art and creation get better and more immersive the more you focus on it.

I have asked some people to participate that bewildered tell me they are not photographers. It was never the intention of AB to be exclusionist in that way, which Eskild Krogh’s contributions show. You have to think of AB as a reaction to ‘the new old world’. We were entering an age of science, arts and reason when it, quite literally, blew up in our faces because we forgot to educate the broad masses - oh, and oops, did not eliminate poverty.

We have entered an age of stupidity and greed instead - the age of the CEO, corporate shells and a system that only sees you as a consumer. To combat that we need charm, art, humor, satire, wit and guile. We need to eliminate the noise and focus.

New stuff includes 2 new blogs coming up and stuff from Rubenstein and Sabine.

Zaar Riisberg // You Live, You Learn - going back to Flickr and other concessions

December 08, 2018

I am not at all deterred when it comes to keep doing Artballistics.com - namely, because I think there is a need for this stuff. There is a need to oppose modern art for its shallowness, and there is a need to continually evoke the kid from The Emperor’s New Clothes and follow his example.

But ‘how’ is still something I debate with myself. Hard lining it, and saying that it has to be original work all the way, is not working. I understand, that I am at the center of this, but I am nearing the end of one of the worst journeys of my life. I know what I have to do here on AB, I know what I should do commercially and artistically AND personally. But I do not have a leg to stand on, a pot to piss in or a famous window to throw it out of - and I refuse to be boxed in. If the trip gets too comfortable, I am still the kind of person that will punch the self eject button during a calm flight - the storm is just more interesting, and turbulence makes for a fun ride. Yeah, the ground is hard when you crash into it. Fuck the ground. Leap.

I still want contributors and suggestions, but I should probably ‘tap’ people and ask for contributions from people that I find interesting, and I have been entertaining the idea of changing my IG to an account for AB, because it would make more sense for me to go back to Flickr, because what I need more than anything else, is an ‘organiser’, so customers can easily browse my stuff when given a non public link - until I get a hidden, digital catalog made.

I do want to brand AB, and we have ideas for weekly content. But me, and the people I count on, have heavy real life issues to deal with. For me, I should make the change that my personal website and AB is where I express my self and my views and nowhere else. It is a no brainer, really. But anyone that knows me for real (that would be my mother, basically), knows that I am exceedingly thorough, and though I do not shy away from conflict, I am always pre meditating in the shadows, before I leap at your throat, and I seldom, very seldom do anything in affect.

I wrote a piece on Facebook a while back, that I am posting here. I have a few other classic posts that I will move here, I invite the other contributors to do the same, and I will thin the categories and make the site more poignant going forward. Or wait, until you see that I really will follow through. I understand, if some people liken me with crying wolf on AB. All I can say, is that this project was born out of the storm of my life, and I will never fucking let it go, even if it is only me and a few others.