"Mennonites in Hollywood" Photograph

Okay. It was never easy for me. I was born a poor white child in the USSR. I remember running and hiding from the commies with my noncoformist artist parents in St. Petersburg. My dad was killed by the KGB because they didn't like his paintings, and my mom decided to move us to central Texas in the middle of the cold war to make stained glass for Baptist churches. We were welcomed like the bubonic plague. Rocky was fighting Drago, Americans were under siege in Red Dawn, Springsteen was bellowing "Born in the USA", Reagan reviled Russia an "Evil Empire". I became athletic as I tried to outrun the locals who (correctly!) suspected me of being a spy.

I moved to L.A. after high school, where I attended UCLA, and got a big job in a little cubicle. I sat at my desk and daydreamed about riding an iron steed across faraway lands. So I bought a motorcycle, Fulcrum, on which I circled the world and discovered a mythical pilot in the Laplands credited with sparing the famous church Kizhi from being fire bombed during WWII, and I not only succeeded in reuniting them after 62 years, but also having him awarded with the Finish Iron Cross. My helmet acquired a voice of its own, allowing a stream of consciousness that provided a satirical observation on literature, art, and a dream of finding that perfect love. I got lost and had to set fire to my underwear in a vicious Siberian blizzard. I lit a cigarette, looked over at Fulcrum laying on her side, and realized I had fallen in love. With photography, that is, and the readymade performance of humanity that takes itself so seriously.