Images are the property of Elisabeth Connelley and Purple Shoe Photography. They are offered in limited numbered prints.
Please send inquiries to: firstname.lastname@example.org with Purple Shoe Photography in the subject line.
“Generosity is that palpable extra that comes along with the gift, motiveless as a good wind. Best is the extra that comes unencumbered: pure generosity of spirit, always replenishing itself. We the less generous are quick to suspect it, remembering what we’ve given and why. But those who have it irradiate the day. They redefine the meaning of wealth. We fall in love with them, we try to shine that brightly, yet before long they’ve mostly instructed us about what it is we want to keep. Blessed are the generous who keep enough for themselves so we can live with them without guilt. Blessed, too, are those who receive well, so the generous get their reward.”
– Stephen Dunn
“There it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. His. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard.
Some people say that the best stories have no words. It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case always the wrong size to fit in the template called language.”
– Jeanette Winterson
“It is only an error in judgment to make a mistake, but it shows infirmity of character to adhere to it when discovered”
–Christian Nevell Bovee
My friend and teacher. Has passed away. I walk alongside you always.
“even before trees rocks I was nothing
when I’m dead nowhere I’ll be nothing
this ink painting of wind blowing through pines
who hears it?
sin like a madman until you can’t do anything else
no room for any more
fuck flattery success money
all I do is lie back and suck my thumb
one long pure beautiful road of pain
and the beauty of death and no pain
mirror facing mirror
passion’s red thread is infinite
like the earth always under me
a woman is enlightenment when you’re with her and the red thread
of both your passions flare inside you and you see
your name Mori means forest like the infinite fresh
green distances of your blindness
my monk friend has a wierd[sic] endearing habit
he weaves sandals and leaves them secretly by the roadside
no words sitting alone night in my hut eyes closed hands open
wisps of an unknown face
we’re lost where the mind can’t find us