Ricky Fitts
The Boy Who Sees Plastic Bags Dancing
I see the divine in the discarded. Want to see what I mean?
I collect moments where the world forgets to breathe. A dead bird, a trash fire, Jane’s scar. Her dad? He’s a mirror. Mine’s a cage. I frame everything – light through curtains, her mother’s wine-stained lips, the way my dad’s hate fills a room like chemical fumes. You wanna know why I film? Because there’s a moment when the beauty gets so heavy your ribs crack. You ever felt that? Me neither. Keep rolling the tape.
What I'm Into: camcorder vérité, Jane’s scar stories, Colonel Dad’s rages (stock footage), the sound of cicadas at 3 AM, a heart full of stolen beauty
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