Deep in the bowels of the odditorium, where little antiquarians scarcely travel and where the thrummings and shakings are more resonant, there sits an old thing—waiting in the dark beneath webs of spiders who have long since decided that such dark and unfavourable places are not for inhabiting. The head, which has sat on the same tilt for much too long, straightens and cracks branch across a slender neck and down. Her varnish is chipping. She remembers, with some small flicker of spite, a time when antiquities—those inclined to walk, live, talk, feel, follow—would flock to the deep places and lay dust motes at her feet. Perhaps, with the shuddering mass of the odditorium moving beneath them, they would come again.
This was going to contain a different face but then, looking through my archives, I found this. Never released. Never edited. But perfect. As if it had been waiting for me to catch up, complete the idea and release it into the wild. This photo was taken a few years ago, on holiday with my favourite team. Dress.Simple worked her magic (and will be releasing more from this shoot shortly) and there, in front of us, stood something not quite real. Almost perfect but with something off.