backforthmenu Dream. I’m with photographer, Cheryl Dunn, and we are entering a high-security prison. We go through the many locked gates and security checks before we reach the actual grounds of the prison. A large outdoor area sits sadly in the center of a set of huge, bleak buildings. In the courtyard is a massive halfpipe. On it a bulldog is running down the transition, across the flat, up the opposite wall and blasting a very large air before coming down. I notice the person we’ve come to see is standing on the opposite deck—I’m not sure he has seen us as we lay out our work on the grass next to the wide sidewalk. It’s Gator Rogowski. Mark. The dog goes up for another air and Gator catches him at the apex and puts him down on the deck. We can tell they are very close—perhaps he owns the dog. Mark drops in and skates very well—the same as he skated during his heyday as a pro. When he finishes he starts to walk over to see us and I get nervous. Cheryl has been working on a calendar which I am publishing. The calendar either features Gator, or is entirely devoted to him, I’m not sure which. The items we’ve put down are completely preliminary and I am noticing that some of the copy is pretty brutal in its descriptions of the murder Mark committed some ten years ago. I am thinking to myself that we should not be showing him such an early version of the work when he shows up just over my shoulder and looks directly at the copy I didn’t want him to read. I feel that an explosion from him is imminent. I want to tell him this is an early version, but fear grips me along with a dose of self-loathing for even doing the project. 3/12/98