If I were to do a an editorial in a fancy magazine today, it would look something like this. 

I took this photo on Friday and this is exactly why I take polaroids. Every once in a while, almost never when I expect it, I am surprised with a dream that develops before my eyes. This is one of those dreams. 

I’ve now sent out almost 450 letters and polaroids. Each one is a labor of love and each letter and polaroid is unique. What I love most is that they cannot be reproduced; there is only one original and that is only for one person. Here are scans of four letters and polaroids I’ve sent out recently. Well, you don’t actually get to see the letter part, just the envelope. Just a tease. The letters themselves are full of secrets.

Love,

Balthazar

 14 April 2012

Title: I Know that Your Way Has Been Circuitous as Well

 2 April 2012

Title: It’s Always Paris in Her Heart

 25 March 2012

Title: May You Find Skirts that Are Too Short around Each Corner

 25 February 2012

Title: Philosophy

Sometimes I forget about photos I’ve taken and then rediscover one and fall in love all over again. That happened today with this photo. I hope it happens for you, too.

I walked to the lake yesterday searching for summer

and stripes

and skin,

but all I found was the spring chill

and a silent, potential summer.

There’s something to be said for simplicity. For simple lines and curves.

Would you agree?

P.S. I’m obsessed with leotards.

I can only feel photos these days. I don’t have words, only feelings. There’s a tone of red that completely undoes me and I seek it relentlessly.

Very rarely I’m able to capture a feeling that I have, to find the colors that match my sensations, and a body just at the moment I desire. This is one of those moments. 

Happy five years, darling.

Love,

Balthazar

Meet Nico. She’s out of a French postcard from some lovely, distant past. She’s more than the sum of her parts. She’s a flowering of everything womanly and feminine. But she won’t stay within 

the lines.

minutes, miles, bites, strides
I’m a moving target I can’t pin down.

ounces, drops, halves, quarters
The color’s draining from my dreams.

milligrams, minutes, digits, texts
My fingers tapping the secret code.

breaths, reps, words, steps
I can’t stop living by the numbers.

Text by SM Kubica

“I’m obsessed with inventing stories for people I come across. An overwhelming curiosity makes me ask what their lives might be like. I want to know what they do, where they’re from, their names, what they’re thinking about at that moment, what they regret, what they hope for, whom they’ve loved, what they dream of… and if they happen to be women then the urge becomes intense. How quickly you would want to see that one naked, admit it, and naked through to her heart. How you try to learn where she’s coming from, where she’s going, why she’s here and not elsewhere! While letting your eyes wander all over her. You think of what her bedroom could look like, and a thousand things besides… right down to the battered slippers into which she must slip her feet when she gets out of bed.”

-Gustave Flaubert

Our love burns madly, but always true. This year will behold many celebrations of our love, starting with La Décadanse, which opens on January 20th.

(Scan of a polaroid negative)

Her quilt is a mercy.