Kim is pretty short, has a ton of hair, a broken orange backpack
and always loses her camera. When that happens, she just gets a
disposable and keeps taking pictures. It’s this lackadaisical
tenacity that translates into her photos, how they always looked
kind of busted but warmly worn in and comfortable. Like many young
photographers, she’s made her friends her subjects—landscapes
of young women, tattoos and San Francisco fog. But she never lays
a soft hand, as if anything flattering in her photos is accidental.
That’s not to say her photos are purposefully unappealing
or harsh, but simply that they are so often just really gross—honest
portraits of much of her daily life. But Sandy’s grossness
is completely malleable, sometimes funny, sometimes horrific, sometimes
unbelievably lush. Sandy is such a brazen and unafraid woman and
that power continually streams strongly in her photos, across all
spectrums of feeling and subject. Throughout Sandy Kim, there is
a lot of blood, but that blood is never the same—blood on
her sheets after sex, blood from a dead body covered in a sterile
white sheet, blood on the hand of a friend after an unknown accident.
He’s smiling, looking straight at the camera, at Sandy. They
both know it will heal."