Give

Betty Busby

réplique [digital collage], glover©2016

Ipanema

Whatever he had – we called it style because this word played to our raging envy, arguing for some distinction between him and substance, even while inside we knew that such a distinction was absurd – it was a force inseparable from the long, narrow body where this force was expressed. There was always something auspicious in his skating, something in that slight shadow that was premised on rumor. You knew him immediately: a handful of frames, a fraction of a second and we’d know. Even before he entered the frame. And, as it went, along the way he was subsumed, or rather devoured, chewed by rows of grinding, youthful teeth that were sharpened on whatever clips they could find online. They slid the bar leftward to watch and rewatch, studying his style, marveling, digesting it, and from this sustenance growing bit-by-bit into something that was derived from Dylan, a self that was not the original’s equal by any measure, a shadow’s shadow, only an approximation, but, as we’ve seen, this inheritance did indeed help them, eventually, turn into themselves. This is what a soul is. This is immortality.

Aotearoa, The Church of the Open Sky.

by Matt C.

Eloïse Heinzer, “Fleurs bleues”

King of style. RIP #dylanrieder

‘Innaloo’

Tamanawas Falls, OR.

The ripple effect. (at St Ouen’s Beach)

Biker Queen

Afternoon delight. @ivythomas_ making the most of these small winter days. PC: @patcliffordphoto

Lauren Hill.