On the whole, living here in Alaska has been the best, but I have got to work out a better creative process. Part of my issue has been the absence of self-portrait nudes. Where we live is sort of a creative conundrum: during the summer it’s full-on light all damn day, so there’s no privacy in our neighborhood; during the winter, when it does get dark, it’s cold and bare skin on ice hurts like hell!

If I want to shoot nude, maybe I should consider doing more with no light, or a single one, or just something altogether different than the direction I have been going. Like maybe I’ll get into a closet, or use a mirror to expose my self — some shit like that.

When I spend what little time I do brainstorming ideas like this (a task over the last months basically comprised only of these last few sentences), I bore myself to death with the thought of continuing to take self-portrait after self-fucking-portrait. Who wants to see that shit? Especially if I want to punch myself in the temple just thinking about the repetition and slight variation.

Does that mean this project has found itself at an end? Maybe I’m just bored with it — sometimes I wonder if that’s the case. And then I Google some shit only to stumble upon Yu Yamauchi, who lived in a hut on Mount Fuji for like two years so he could take the same goddamn photo every morning. And thank you universe for people like him: that’s the kind of admirable dedication to task that I cannot for the life of me comprehend in my own work. And what the hell does that mean about me?

This project has more fortitude than a personal journal and it is more extensible. It really holds no expectation for me, and my mind defines it, so what is the origin of all this insecurity about conformity within it? If I say I’m unconcerned about the audience, then why do I give a damn about taking seventeen self-portraits in a row with one of these black hoodies I wear constantly?