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These pine-needle balls are also surreptitious emblems of Shepherd's own tightly knit and tiny work, itself "kept for years".

Shepherd is a fierce looker, then. And like many fierce lookers, she is also a mystic, for whom empiricism is the first step to immanence. Her descriptions always move beyond the merely material.

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Up on the mountain, she writes, "the eye sees what it didn't see before, or sees in a new way what it had already seen. So the ear, the other senses. These moments come unpredictably, yet governed, it would seem, by a law whose working is dimly understood.

Shards of Zen philosophy glitter in the prose of all three writers, like mica flecks in granite. Reading their work now - with the fusion of Scottish culture and Buddhist metaphysics - remains astonishing: But Shepherd is always looking inside the Cairngorm landscape. Again and again her eyes pry through surface: Shepherd is also fascinated by mirages of the mountain-world, the illusions that can be brought on by snow, mist, cloud or distance.

She punningly calls these illusions "misspellings", visual errors that possess an accidental magic. In one memorable passage, Shepherd describes looking at a croft during a rain shower. The wet air acts as a lens, multiplying and redistributing her sightlines, so that she seems to view all sides of the barn simultaneously. Shepherd's own style possesses a similar stereoscopic quality. Reading The Living Mountain, you experience a curious visual dissonance.

This effect is created by her refusal to privilege a single perspective. The prose watches now from the point of view of the eagle, now from that of the walker, now from that of the creeping juniper. In this way we are brought to see the earth "as the earth must see itself". For Shepherd, being outdoors is a profoundly sensuous experience: The earthy smell of moss. She swims in lochs, and sleeps on hillsides, to be woken by the sharp press of a robin's claw upon her bare arm or the snuffle of a grazing deer. She records with brilliant exactness how frost "stiffens the muscles of the chin" a part of the body we don't usually associate with muscularity, let alone thermometric sensitivity , or the pleasure of "running my hand after rain through juniper.

For Shepherd, though, this sensuous relish was not an antagonist of thought, but its accomplice. He has already written the next book in the series. He and his wife, Jane, have four grown children and nine grandchildren.

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Don't have an account? Update your profile Let us wish you a happy birthday! Make sure to buy your groceries and daily needs Buy Now. They weren't women either, by the way, they were another species. She pauses for a moment, lost in thought, then says, "That was way before all this transgender crap. Fucking postmodern and gender theory.

I walk therefore I am

I mean, who gives a shit? People made all that crap up to get jobs in universities. I once told my students to just take LSD if they wanted to see the world clearly," she says, grinning and lighting another cigarette. When she left school, she briefly attended night classes in beginners' photography.

But I did meet Henry Horenstein, a teacher and photographer, who had looked at my work. He asked me if I knew Larry Clark's work so it was worth it for that alone. I saw Clark's book Tulsa , and it had a huge impact on me. Published in , Tulsa is a diaristic chronicle in black and white of the lives of a bunch of wayward young people from the photographer's home town. Clark, who later directed the controversial film Kids , photographed them using heroin, having sex and playing around with handguns.

Nan's Circle of Life: Nan's Family Circle - Nancy Lane - Google Книги

For many critics of the time, that was a morally questionable stance, but it redrew the boundaries of what was permissible as documentary subject matter. She graduated in and moved to New York soon after and began taking the photographs that would become The Ballad of Sexual Dependency. She rejects the term "outsiders" for her subjects, referring to them instead as her "family". They were, she later wrote, "bonded not by blood, but by a similar morality, the need to live fully and for the moment". In finding and celebrating this surrogate family, Goldin was also acknowledging her sister, who, as she once put it, "was born at the wrong time and had no tribe, no other people like her".

When the book was published, it defined what came to be known, somewhat reductively, as "the snapshot style". Shot in often saturated colour and flash-lit, it was initially dismissed, she says, mainly by male photographers. We didn't give a shit about prints. I wanted to make films. That was always the ambition. Constantly reedited and revised by her since then, The Ballad At the Arles' photography festival of , which was curated by Goldin , an outdoor screening held several hundred people in thrall. Likewise, in the more intimate setting of a dark room in Tate Modern a few years ago, when it was shown as part of a themed show, Exposed: Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera, it proved the most popular attraction.

It's the mixture of narrative and music that keeps people watching. She is a master of sequencing. Many photographers have followed Goldin, but very few have produced work that is so monumental in scale and yet so powerfully intimate. She really is out there on her own. And "out there", with all its connotations, was where Nan Goldin was for a long time. She is one of the few artists — William Burroughs might be the only other one — whose work's quality does not seem to have been compromised by heroin use. But, while The Ballad of Sexual Dependency chronicles a twilight world of cavalier drug use, it also portrays, even more graphically, the inevitable downside, including her own addiction, an abusive relationship and the deaths of some of those closest to her as the Aids epidemic of the late s scythed through the gay subculture of New York and beyond.

She is, I suggest, lucky to have survived.

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When I was 19, I put the needle down and I think that decision saved my life. And, though I mixed heroin and coke [Goldin continued to use heroin but not intravenously], I never smoked crack. There is something genetic inside me that is about surviving, but, so many people I know have gone that I do have survivor's guilt. After The Ballad was published in , I spent two years in my room.

Drugs became my full-time occupation and about the only people I saw were my dealers. I never answered the phone. I have the answerphone tapes, but I'm afraid to listen to them. People take drugs because they feel good. Especially people who don't have a skin, who are really raw like I was. With heroin, you don't feel any pain. For me, cocaine was worse than smack. It's an evil drug. It sent me to the bottom. Does she think now that drugs were a way of numbing the pain of her sister's death?

I wanted to get high from a really early age. I wanted to be a junkie. That's what intrigues me. Part was the Velvet Underground and the Beats and all that stuff. But, really, I wanted to be as different from my mother as I could and define myself as far as possible from the suburban life I was brought up in. In , Goldin went into rehab, clutching her camera and a copy of The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, both of which were immediately confiscated by the staff.

That just baffled me. She got her camera back in a halfway house, where she tentatively began taking some self-portraits that are studies in utter vulnerability. Without heroin and cocaine she felt unmoored, and for a while was unsure if she would ever take a good photograph again. I honestly didn't know who I was or what I was when I first got clean.