How many years will pass before zealous citizens of the crumbling cities write wistfully of the unflooded city, capitol of the world’s sport. Who will compare their home to the strange mists that sometimes float between the hills and atop the rivers, preceding the alien springs, the resplendent falls, and the crystalline blue skies of Kansas City? We forget that history is still unfolding. What was once imagined is now proved. So what do we now imagine?
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I’m a fairly nondescript person living in Kansas City, MO. Even so, for a number of unremarkable reasons, I have more than 500,000 followers on Instagram. I’m an artist, and I do strive for and enjoy a large audience, but most of the people I know in the real, physical world greet this numeric feat as strange news. Those who respect and follow the world of “mobile photography” seem mystified as to why I’m enjoying such success. And those who don’t participate in such distractions at all seem to regard my city-sized population of followers as something they imagine I’ll one day be embarrassed of – as though they unwittingly discovered that I am the kingpin of a hidden, vibrant world of Beanie Babies.
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Beneath all the overwrought posturing and explanations, the only work I’m ever compelled to make comes from a place of deep fascination with my own existence. I want to do all I can to further that work—to perfect its edges, to tighten its weave. I want to threaten and sometimes even waste that work’s progress with long breaks with my wife, walking further than we ever proposed. With unexpected travel. Unplanned meals with my friend at bars we’re too old for. With urgency and stillness. The years before us; the people, the work. Our Liberty Hall.