Jun 2, 2012

adolescents in their corners

Phillip settled down in his room with his laptop and his files.
It was the same room he'd been given when Ray and Stella Quinn had brought him home. The walls had been a pale green then. Sometime during his sixteenth year he'd gotten a wild hair and painted them magenta. God knew why. He remembered that his mother—for Stella had become his mother by then—had taken one look and warned him he'd have terminal indigestion.
He thought it was sexy. For about three months. Then he'd gone with a stark white for a while, accented
with moody black-framed, black-and-white photographs.
Always looking for ambience, Phillip thought now, amused at himself. 

Inner Harbor


___________________



Black Converse sneakers 


 
Stefano Giogli photographs teens from Tiber Valley in their intimate haven


Who can forget the hours of adolescence in own bedroom? Generations change, but some ways don't.
How many secrets does the bedroom of those kids, that are no longer children but not yet adults, hold ... Each room, a world.





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 They'd kept his room. It had changed over the years, different paint for the walls, a new rug for the
floor. But the bed was the same one he'd slept in, dreamed in, waked in.
The same bed he'd sneaked Foolish into when he'd been a child.
And the one he'd sneaked Alice Albert into when he'd thought he was a man.
He figured Cam knew about Foolish, and had often wondered if he'd known about Alice.

Chesapeake Blue