Creating stories in the closet at my studio with James Pilbeam

1880's widowed homesteader, her only child died of cholera. Lonely, tired, worn, she worries she never know the feel of a hard man ever again... suddenly, she hears horse hoofs clop out younder, on horseback a stranger rides up she sees through the dusty window.... Are his intentions lawful, helpful, moral? Or is he an outlaw, looking to take what he wants, no matter what? And in those seconds, as the cloppping grows louder, does she think to herself: "does it fucking matter?"

Well, I just read the post about two types of fans. I’m guessing these pics are how you feel about the second type.

Yes I like the socks too, but I see a bit of anger followed by boredom and frustration. Hopefully at least one of these interpretations is true. 🌷