Randy P. Martin
I’ve got a problem with Randy P. Martin’s photography. You see, in order to make these images, the man tunneled deep into my cerebellum to take tiny photos of my dreamscape, and then had the nerve to blow them up on his Flickr/Tumblr (btw, where have all the “e’s” gone?) I assure you, he did not request permission to enter, nor did he credit my subconscious.
In my dreams, all subjects are framed as precisely and wistfully as Zooey Deschanel in one of those movies about Zooey Deschanel. The backdrops are so gorgeous and surreal that they must be lifted from my fantasy “Holy Mountain of Denim” Levi’s campaign, where Alejandro Jodorowsky takes a stab at heritage wear. All hangtags will be made from 100% legally confiscated acid tabs. Remove before wear or wash.
Finally, he put hot girls on mopeds. If you’ve been within 10 yards of me in the past six months, you’d know that this is the most enticing subject matter available for human consumption, and that I will not rest until I own one of those dysfunctional death traps.
Randy, the next time you break into an aesthetic bliss-palace via some next-level Being John Malkovich shit, please take me with you.