
Nina Hanz
Dawn Dreams (of Doors)
A grainy film slide, at moon drop melodrama. He
has one hand by the lip—beer breakfast—of a glass
while his other hand rests, below brow bone
forming shadow puppets with the palm wrinkles of
life lines. An odd gesture. Fate is a four-lettered word
for nightmare. On an inky morning LA hangout he was
camera captured, a photo by B. Klein at daybreak’s dawn
dream. He sits by salt and pepper shakers and the kind of
retro sugar dispensers only found in American diners,
used for morning coffees, late afternoon coffees,
and coffees for truckers and commuters who drive through
the night. Headache or hangover how many ways can you say
Jim Morrison? He has his middle finger dipping, down
into frothy hallow, the space where beer used to be but
now is half empty. The little bubbles remaining, slow draining.
And behind him is a door, ajar, an entrance or exit. Could be
nothing more than a closet, a motion unfinished. Stuck
somewhere between open or closed.