Cynthia E. Wood:
Diacritic
Cynthia E. Wood:
Ode to Juergen Teller (#7 of 13)
Cynthia E. Wood:
Home sweet home again (#13 of 13)
Cynthia E. Wood:
Get your kicks
Cynthia E. Wood:
Killing time
Cynthia E. Wood:
Not art. (According to at least one young tourist who snidely-loudly-incredulously asked her parents as they walked by me when I was taking this shot, "Stacked plastic chairs is ART?") Ohmygawd, like totally.
Cynthia E. Wood:
November. Already?
Cynthia E. Wood:
After hours
Cynthia E. Wood:
A-11
Cynthia E. Wood:
The red hard hat and the green desk
Cynthia E. Wood:
I have nothing to add
Cynthia E. Wood:
Prison chair
Cynthia E. Wood:
Settling in
Cynthia E. Wood:
Therapy
Cynthia E. Wood:
Motel room - Oceanside, OR
Cynthia E. Wood:
Ocean view
Cynthia E. Wood:
Chez moi
Cynthia E. Wood:
What happens to those stray eyelashes that land on your cornea and then lodge themselves in the fold of your lower lid? I've always wondered. Do they disintegrate? Seriously. Where do they go...?
Cynthia E. Wood:
When you look out and all you see is a sea of blank faces
Cynthia E. Wood:
Wreck room
Cynthia E. Wood:
Pendulous
Cynthia E. Wood:
Nobody puts baby in the corner
Cynthia E. Wood:
You suck and your photos are boring.
Cynthia E. Wood:
Lamplight
Cynthia E. Wood:
Elbow pads
Cynthia E. Wood:
Limn
Cynthia E. Wood:
The Children's Table
