Having just been offered a place on a prestigious MA History of Art w/ Photography programme, which I fully expect to financially cripple me (yet redeemably fill me with lovely knowledge about all sorts of clever and refined things), I've opted divide my time between the courses preparatory reading list and the things I probably won't be able to do for the next year or so come October. As such, my first port of call was Brighton where I found Dean pretty much how I left him last month... but with more furniture.
More than once in the past it's been suggested that I should write a book, or at the very least attempt some kind of literary endeavor recounting the lives, or non-lives, of those that I've been hemmed in with for all these years. And although I know I don't have the capacity for any such thing, there's just something about Dean that requires so much more than photographs to convey. If nothing else, the words that comes out of his mouth are just priceless.
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| Dean at Pav Tav, Brighton |
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| Fab smoking, Brighton |
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| Dean in his humble abode, now complete with armchairs bartered from an unconvinced yet begrudgingly help-giving Christian charity - As this photograph was taken he was indeed mid-rant about how much he hates those Christians for once giving him brown bread instead of white (yes, they feed him too). |
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| Dean playing Space Invaders at World's End, Brighton |
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