Gorilla

I didn’t photograph this image, my friend Matt Robinson did when we were in college together, but I was there helping him on that photoshoot exactly twenty years ago this month. He called this series Zone Fantasy Fashion. Two weeks ago my friend Matt put a gun to his ear and pulled the trigger. He lived his life at full wild speed, he was all in all the time, a true angelheaded madman. Some people come into your life and flit away with the softest of breezes. Matt came into my life like a bullfighter, edged with raw intensity and when he was around everything was brighter. That’s the thing with people like him, they burn hot. A white hot glowing human that can’t help but draw people in, and I was in.     

Matt was an artist and he lived his life on his terms. He was dealt hands worse then others, or he drew that passion to him, who can know how the world shapes itself around each of us. But with this intensity comes a precarious balance, and the abyss on one side is a darkness few of us can fathom. That we all know we’re destined to die at some point is evolutions little joke on us, but some choose when they go and it’s not up to those left behind to label the act, to put blame or a perverse spin on it, I certainly won’t. But I won’t mythologize it either. Death is an ugly business. 

I don’t have a litany list of likes and achievements, nor would I tell you if I had, life is far more complex than a checklist. What I do have are stories from a friendship lasting half my life and a shared passion for making images and in that is a friends perspective. He was a kindred artist and a real seeker. I have no hesitation in saying one of the most unique individuals I’ve ever known.     

Matt should be celebrated, in his true Gorilla way, ripped free of the formaldehyde wooden box he was buried in, his body driven deep into the desert and thrown on a raging funeral pyre, his family and friends performing a crazed dance fueled with poetry, love, gasoline, fire and engines roaring into the night. A circus madhouse screaming at the inextricable realities of life, stewing the cauldron of debauchery and anguish, and turn to face the sunrise in salutation to a life lived, to a flame extinguished. I’m a better human for having him in my life, and in the coming months, deep in the wilderness, I will strip naked and paint myself with mud and ash and dance the wildman around a high mountain fire and scream a barbaric yawp for my friend. I think he’d appreciate that. 

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

    -Kerouac