What comes to mind when I see fringe is the desert. Life on the fringe. Cowboys and Indians. Tumbleweeds and ghost towns. Scenes from Alejandro Jodorowsky’s surreal
The desert, for me, has always born a melancholic, bittersweet spirit. Perhaps it’s the deserts inherent loneliness, coupled by its vast holiness. It’s dry and scorching during the day. The endless nights are punctured by the howl of stars in open sky and strange silhouettes on dark land. Spiny cacti prickling in the mid-day haze surrender their flowers to the coolness. Fringe, hanging in tendrils when still, strips of fabric separated from one another, is altered by the slightest movement Ramble on. -Gina DellaGioia August 2012 |