PHOTOS BY IAN J
FEATURING ALEXX WONDERLAND
Buried deep in the bowels of a broken down warehouse, somewhere to the north of downtown Baltimore, the disembodied head of good old Henry Chinaski, that broken-down, unemployed, alcoholic alter ego of Bukowski, floats in mid-scream above a staircase.
Bukowski enthralled us with his tales of lechery, a booze-soaked existence that made us question whether we were disgusted or envious of his character’s meaningless existence. Much like the warehouse that bears his face over the staircase, we are unsure if we are in love or terrified of the promise of the stories held within.
The Graffiti Warehouse hosts a small artists collective, with spaces rent-able for creation. A local band might take up residence one month, a painter the next, with photographers popping in and out to capture the beauty and grace of the expired and broken down.
Alexx’s infectious attitude brightened the warehouse up one afternoon. Like a lover for rent entering the life of a lost man, she came, left her mark on the warehouse, and left.
Bukowski would be proud to see his face behind her nude body.
Or at the least, try to bed her.