parkes-and-wrecks: Rest In Power.I was intimidated by Mike the first time I met him- he’s very
Rest In Power.
I was intimidated by Mike the first time I met him- he’s very tall (stoop under to get through the door kind of tall), broad as a barn, built of steel, impossibly handsome, loud, and very candid about pretty much everything. He was covered in tattoos. His tongue was split and he had dozens of cuts and scars, the largest one right down his chest from open-heart surgery; he’d wanted to join the WWE but the medical found his heart was about to burst, and they had to open his chest and perform emergency surgery-twice.
He necked not one but two bottles of cheap white wine during our first shoot (”Got to stay hydrated, man!”). He wasn’t even a little bit drunk. He sat down and felt himself up to make his dick look bigger on camera. I was half shocked but the other half of me thought that he was so fun. I loved his spirit: it couldn't give two fucks. He had an intensity on camera but in between that he had this huge goofy grin and something about him that included everyone in the room.
He’d served in Afghanistan as a military translator, and used to talk about fighting the Taliban.
I still remember him guffawing as he told me about the time he stole the camera gear of a photographer in New York who had tried to feel him up during his early modelling days.
He had two old pugs who used to roam the studio looking for food. He loved them to bits and used to lick their faces as they licked his; this huge man dotty about these tottering old pugs.
He would divulge details of his crazy hedonistic life, but also be shy sometimes, and in those first three shots, in which he was tired and hungover, I think he gave something to the camera, a little part of himself that was happy and content.
He was unabashedly queer. Men and women threw themselves at him. He didn’t care. He met a girl who became his wife and she used to stick needles through his cheeks and cut his skin with razors. He loved it.
He used to hang from hooks in his skin under waterfalls in Norway.
I’d never met anyone like him. He was a thrilling person to photograph, always unpredictable, moving and shifting under my long lens, but kind and sweet and funny too. He was always looking for his next project and adventure. I’m not surprised his heart eventually gave out, but in losing him I’m more struck by how he lived so unapologetically as himself.
I found out Mike had died when his dad got in touch. He was a photographer too, and apparently, Mike hated having his photo taken at one stage in his life. I look at these images now and am reminded of where so often the value of images really lie for so many of us; as testaments that we were here.
