A thousand hands come into frame. Writhing like a multi-digited animal.
They are being enveloped, touched from all sides.
Some leave coal dust prints, others scratched ridges of skin.
The only sound, that of hands rubbing together.
An authoritative hand appears slapping away the others,
You can't touch this it implies with a curt wagging finger.
The frame empties, leaving only canvas and touching bodies.
There is something so intriguing about Richardson's photographs. His gritty viewpoint, his warped sense of humour, its sexual overtones. I've just discovered his 'blog' Terry's Diary and really enjoy the imagery. Sure there has been all the hubbub surrounding the 'coming out' of certain models alleging abuse etc, I won't get into the conversation like Tavi recently did (here). As far as I'm concerned as long as there was no force and actual intimidation, I have no problem with what Terry does to get his images. I was surprised while going through his catalogue to see that he has taken some really great shots of stars that I had seen before and though were brilliant.
