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Photos courtesy of Leigh T. Jimmie

At 54 years old, Mihio Manus is a noticeable attendee at any local 10+ -attendee art dork musical extravaganza. His weathered skin, sagging down around lips that have not seen a smile in decades, causes those he photographs to stare intently into his sorrow-filled eyes and wonder, just for a moment; “Am I giving anything to this man’s life by posing for him? By exploiting myself so he can make fast cash? His soul is vacuous; this money will not make him happy.”

Deep in the Appalachian town of Flagstaff, Arizona, in an underground lair known as “The Lair,” Manus diligently hand-weaves all his cameras from a combination of velvet and kitten intestines. He is rarely seen during the day, and at night he is only seen in situations where there is a chance he can make a quick buck. Inspired by artists such as Rothko and Jim Davis, and authors such as Gloria Anzaldua and Richard Rodriguez, Manus’ work encapsulates a bleak landscape of adolescent depravity, alienation, and desperation. It is the hopeless that inhabit his 35mm world; the dejected, confused, egocentric, and hateful.

By expanding his easel in the darkroom, expanding it past the size of the actual projected negative, thus blurring and blackening the edges of his primarily black and white photographs, Manus is able to give the illusion of a controlled chaos. With every photograph he uploads onto the world wide web (which can be found at www.internet.com), Manus cries out for help. “Show me how to work this easel!” he silently screams into the dim orange light of the darkroom. Somewhere between the fixer and the stop bath Manus dwells, in the lonely monotony of a room where the walls are painted black.

     Mihio Manus hates Mexican food, techno, and arrogance. His interests include lasers, steak, hardcore breakdowns, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

--Corey Dieckman