Since we stand at the threshold of a new and dubious era in replicant humanity, it seems an apt moment to grasp the last 15 minutes of intimacy.

 

What is intimacy, after all? Is it the sharing of the same thoughts and feelings? Is it being told an unmentionable secret? Is it the act of sex? No, it is stillness: silent, motionless meditation on the sitter's part, accompanied only by the singing of graphite on paper. A kind of Platonic camera, tracing the most essential outlines of a life.

 

One person said: it is not stolen time, it is time agreed upon. Taken deliberately out of the bustle of the ordinary. Entering a time capsule willingly, cutting everything off, just to be still. A luxury we hardly grant ourselves. In these fifteen minutes we simply are.

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15 meditative minutes of intimate drawing can be seen as a correlative to Andy Warhol's loud and public 15 minutes of fame. They ebb and flow in inverse proportion.