Angela N. Hunt

is creating an apocalyptic tarot by way of the Wasteland

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Disclaimer: I take pictures of naked people, very adult ideas, and my writing follows suit, but with way more profanity. If this isn't your cup of tea, um, pictures of naked people will occasionally show up below as I update this thingie with more current work. Oh, and there will often be liberal uses of the word that starts with F, among others. Just wanted to give you a heads up. Caveat emptor.

Hello! *waves* I'm Anji. Welcome to my little corner of the Wasteland.

What you will find here is a project that has decided to eat my head and dominate my life for who the hell knows how many more years. More than a decade at the very least. I call it Tarot Apocalyptica. Or more accurately, that's what It calls Itself and I'm just along for the ride. It's a photographic series of all 78 cards of the tarot, inspired by the George Miller's Mad Max franchise and All the Things in My Head. 

Which is a *lot*. Because I'm not just a photographer. I'm also a filmmaker, writer, and for several decades, a professional costume designer and stitcher, mostly for period costuming centered around the Victorian Age. I also worked theatre for a long time first as a deck hand, then as a grip, into stage managing, which eventually dumped me into costuming and directing. 

I've been around.

But that means, I'm making everything for these cards. Everything. Scrounging from thrift stores where I can and picking up materials for props from the streets of Los Angeles as I find people's discards, but the rest of the time? I'm making everything by hand and from scratch. That means, all the over the top crazy costumes, all the accessories, and all the props to go with each and every card. 

It's a life's work, whether I like it or not and I've definitely bitten off more than I can chew, but this isn't just any photo series/tarot deck.
It's an act of salvation.

I'm looking behind me now, into history back, 2014 to be exact. In 2014, I ran the LA Marathon for my third time. Yeah, I know. Third? Wasn't once enough? No. I don't think it will be ever enough. But that year's marathon had other plans for me. That year, I bonked the race, a term runners use to describe when a race or long distance run comes completely apart. 

When a race hurts us, or in my case, has my right quadricep fail utterly at Mile 8.

But I finished the marathon like an idiot. Because I am stubborn and profoundly dumb. It was a bad injury. Severe enough that I had to stop running. One teeny tiny small problem. The running was all that was literally keeping me sane. A few months after the marathon, I found myself...let's just say I found myself in a really really REALLY dark place, wanting to just...stop. 

I wanted to be dead.

I was trapped in the Waste, lost and no compass to find my way home. I lost my voice. I lost my heart. I

So I hied my ass straight to the doctor(s) -- there's five of them -- where they promptly diagnosed that I was in the middle of an enormous episode of clinical depression, with a lovely side of panic disorder and complex PTSD for fun and profit.

A panic disorder we have now discovered I have probably had my entire life. The PTSD came a little later. Two narcissistic parents, one definitely a full blown case of NPD, and child abuse and neglect will do that to you.


Out in this desolation, the Apocalyptica found me. It found me by way of George Miller and his Fury Road. Showed up, all glorious mad war rig of art, and demanded that I get in. Fang it and drive. Demanded I take what had happened to me then and now and use it as fuel to get to my own green place. A place that might not necessarily ever be an actual physical place, or thing, and offered no guarantee ever of healing. Because even with all we know, there's no cure for depression and chronic panic. The chronic pain was a left over of a near fatal car accident I had when I was 19. A car accident that looking back I see might have been a suicide by accident as my father accused me of so many years ago.

Even then, my brain was trying to kill me. Depression. It's fatal. It's a disease as deadly as cancer, but invisible like smoke on a hot day. If you are horribly unlucky,your brain will murder you. Sooner rather than later.

I didn't want that to be me. Do not want that to be me. I've got shit to do and art to make and I have a family that I love beyond words or salt. And no, this desperate flight to seek salvation through art is not a cure, but if riding this V8 out of the Waste finds me some form of redemption?

I'll take it.

So where are we? Vaguely here:

I have locations. A small army of war girls and boys who have volunteered to model and crew. A garage full of over thirty years of materials my sister and I have amassed over decades of costuming for film and theatre. Enough that even while the war rig hurtles through the desert, I can climb down and fix an engine if it goes out on me and keep going.

So there's infrastructure in place. 

One day, two exhibitions will rise up out of this fire hurricane, the first at the completion of the Major Arcana, and the second at the completion of the Minor, to display the entire deck and associated art that accompanies it, because there was, is more to see out in a place that at first glance looked barren and endless as the Rub' al Khali, the Empty Quarter of the Arabian Peninsula.

Except it is not.

My Patreon is the fuel that supports me through this car chase of creativity, high octane guzzaline that keeps the war rig running.

Very important caveat:  my work comes in binges, especially images. I can go months with nothing and then fire hose y'all with art or writing or whatever. It's literally bleeding the Hoover Dam of Art. So not only does the Patreon here support the continuing madness of recovery, it serves as budget to acquire gear, go out on location, pay for studio time, and help rent gear that I can't afford to own. All of it to keep the Apocalyptica and I barreling down the fury road.

Hence, the monthly option here on my Patreon, rather than per image as that could get a wee bit expensive for folks if you inadvertently forget to cap it. 

In return for your patronage, all patrons get the supporters only stream, where I'll talk about the nuts and bolts of how things get made, and outtakes with the occasional detour of images of my children, four neurotic cats, and the worst therapy dog in the world. For those of you who want things, there are supporter levels that offer prints or art reference (I take a lot of reference photos), and postcards and bad tourist gifts from places I travel.  There are also supporter levels if you just want to buy me a cup of coffee or help me rent a prime lens, because dear gods, stuff!  No more stuff!  But above all, you see everything first.  And in some cases, stuff that no one else will ever see. Just you. 

So far, It's been one ride historic and the end is nowhere in sight. But there's plenty of room on this beast, all twin engines of high octane V8s and steel. 

*points straight at you*

Witness me.

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