TWO MINUS ONE, Tinder stories, 2016 — 2017
It’s not about being a Tinderella. It’s not like that. I just love stories. Mine in exchange for yours.
Okay then. You go first.
I’m a hoarder. I document everything because I can’t let things go. It only happens once, you know? I’m a whore for memories, thoughts and pictures — and beauty. I used to overthink everything, chase even the littlest things round and round in my head. It’s more sane to take a photograph, to catch the moment on film and put it in your pocket. If not, you’ll explode. There’s only so much space between the ears.
What do you think about? What’s in your pocket?
People a lot of the time. How they feel and how they move. Trees and strange objects and the light that makes them magic. I was born here and grew up here. And I’ve always wanted to run away. When I meet travellers, like you, I want to ask them everything. When I taste new places and new, delicious ways of thinking, it makes me really thirsty.
They’re good – these photographs, I mean. They also make me kind of uncomfortable. This one in particular makes me a little sad.
You’re nice. Do you often get sad? I do. Here, now our stories are connected. There’s a chance it might warp or burn, but I’d like to take a picture of you.
Really? I’m not sure if the light is great here.
I don’t care. Do you decide to make a memory based on the composition of a face between the sheets? No. You just think, that’s pretty. And your eyes dart around as you savour the mouth, the temples, the collarbones. So I don’t often use the focus on my camera, or on other people’s cameras. I don’t care about that sort of thing when I’m in it.
Fine. What should I do then?
Whatever. Something crazy. Or not. It doesn’t matter. I just want to take a photo of something that lives inside of you.
I’ve never done this before. Not naked, anyway.
Yes you have. You’ve been doing it since we met. I think that’s why I like you.
(Letter by Ning)