My arms were made to hold you tight
In the lonely images of John Brosio, indifferent everymen pose before backdrops of impending doom and supernatural horror. Tornadoes ravage suburbs and giant shellfish wreak havoc. My favorite is the image above, titled Fatigue. Lit like a Magritte and every bit as surreal, I imagine the octopus represents the worker’s inner projection on arriving home to his domestic life. Does he really want to go inside, does he have a choice?