the current state of my soul
if ever there could be
a visual glimpse
down the rabbit hole
this is it
the current state of my soul
if ever there could be
a visual glimpse
down the rabbit hole
this is it
A recent nye trip called me here, yet again.
It’s really no surprise. And, quite honestly, I’m sick of making apologies for it. There are moments that snag a heart, tangle up, free themselves only by lifting a soul along with them.
I am so caught up in this.
This flying. This expanse of sky reaching down. These shining faces reaching up.
44. Midlife. Doesn’t quite come at me like I thought it might when I was 20.
I woke with trepidation on my birthday. Feeling drained. Feeling as if my heart no longer existed inside the protection of my body. I was physically ill with that fact and terrified. What is a heart if it is exposed? What is a heart if it can no longer be warm?
I pulled my sheets over my head. I took a breath. I rolled my body to it’s side, swung my legs over the edge, my feet slowly finding purchase on the wood floor beneath them.
I have a ritual.
5:43 am. I’m naked. Stepping determinedly into the inky blackness of the lake surrounding me. I’m barely knee deep and frozen already. And, quite honestly, I’m terrified. It’s so dark. Something pulls at me. From the lake bed, from the shore across, from the water itself? I have no idea. But, I step hurriedly to keep up with the force and plunge face first into it’s grip. I convulse. The natural physical shock of the temperature taking over. I place my hand on my bare chest.
An act of defiance.
But, it’s already gone. And I know it. Grit and resolve have no power against a frozen heart.
I crawl out. Sit on the rocks as the sky turns from black to gray. Stare at the shadows. Shake uncontrollably.
A single piercing light from directly across the lake startles me out of my stupor. The light is shining point blank on me. Not moving. I stare into the tractor beam like I’m being abducted. Like whomever or whatever is over there can take me if they want to. I’ve got nothing left. I stand up. The light pulses once. Then goes dark. A message. A savior.
I slowly dress. Walk through the trees up to the house. I’m numb all over. I slink back in bed. Curl into a fetal position. Sleep comes unexpectedly fast and deep.
I wake. I cry. I write. A compilation of 5 years of ‘she is’ statements.
They are me, at times. Her at others. Who can tell the difference between the two, I’m not quite sure anymore. They are the remnants of things people have said to me/about me. They are experiences. They are my heart living outside my chest. They are my mirror.
she is long winded conversations
punctuated fragments
silence
she is stoked coals after midnight
bitter swallows
tequila
she is nervous words slurred in margins
drunk on skin and a sideways smile
she is storm clouds
flash floods
blue-sky rainy days
she is lies sunk into lockets
skipped on lakes
swallowed whole
she is secrets in chest pockets
torn pages thrown to the moon
she is hot tea
shots of lemon juice
run on sentences
she is barefoot, muddied
on the brink of an
African rain
she is squeaky swings
grass stains, voted out
she is flecks of fire in an ocean
of blues, tredding whitewash
sucking salt
she is yesterdays denim
she is weighted lines trailing
into muddle monochrome
she is technicolor memories
full length playbacks on
perpetual rewind
she is carousels
gilded horses
ups and downs
she is shivers
standing naked
knowing it’s only in her head
she is shards of glass
shattered bulbs
darkness
she is loose threads
peeled postage stamps
she is angels
dagger eyes
strength behind
the crying child
she also knows
she is
The world is on fire.
And, yes, there is luxury in all of this uninhibited time spent thinking about myself and my own life. Somehow, unfairly, I was born into safety. Not my choice anymore than it is for others to be born into chaos and violence and trauma they’ve never been freed from. And that feels cruel.
And, excavating my depravity and also my heart seems to be a way of dealing with something uncontrollable and heavy. Like a diving into humanity. A communal level of grieving, of loss, of unspeakable pain. We want to embrace each other. We want to weep and thrash about and wail with those who are mourning so deeply there is no reprieve. We want to raise our fists and scream at the unjustness of all of it.
What do we do?
Creating art sometimes feels like the only bridge between any of it. The only way we do what we can to still be here after we’re gone. To try to feel it. To try to see in the midst of it. To try to embrace others in pain. I would say, to try to make sense of it, but we all know none of this makes sense. And we can’t hold onto any of it.
It is a perpetual slipping.
The duplicity I feel is near constant. Feeling like a ghost and a whisper. The layers of internal dialogue passed somewhere between the not-yet-has-already-been versions of myself seen crypted in messy double exposures on old film in an old camera. I’m not able to put words to it completely or coherently and that feels scary to me. But, as I wrote recently, ‘Words are worthless. They flutter and die and blow away with even the slightest mention of a breeze.’
Not always, but that feels true right now.
I keep telling myself it’s temporary, but it doesn’t seem to be going away. So, maybe temporary is new normal which is not normal at all and I need help.
And, I’m getting it.
But, also, maybe, that doesn’t feel like enough.
A phone scan of my neg strip.
From a walk last week. No one asked. But, this is why.
Because I needed it.
Because I needed to see the mid-morning light splatter through clouds and trees and fall on this earth haphazardly.
Because I needed to weave in and out and be amongst.
Because I needed to feel beauty in disorder.
Because I needed to believe there is a magical place where I can be a pirate or a forest nymph or a heartbroken wanderer and feel safe as all
and all as one.
The trees hold nothing and everything simultaneously.
They breathe your make-believe.
Needless to say, this was an exploration on all levels. From camera to photographer to muse to post processing. And it was beautiful. And it resonates with me in ways that maybe only she and I can cherish. And I’m ok with that. The draw to the mystery and meaning of that is an important part of the process.
It is the thing that succeeds when words fail. Where all that remains is a feeling.
We moved.
Some of you know. More of you don’t.
It’s taken me 3 months to even be able to write those words on a page. To have them glare at me, look at me so boldly, mock my pain, sting my eyes.
I realize, for many, moving feels normal. It’s hard and a lot of work, but maybe you’ve become accustomed to it, done it more times than you would have liked, but see it as a part of life.
And it is a part of life. I get that. This move, however, has seemingly ripped me apart. Ripped us apart. With over 16 years of life in San Diego, it has been tough to embrace it. To step into a new space. There has been lots of grieving. Lots of emotional eruptions on all ends and from all humans in this family. Seems we are simply just trying to hold hearts together, much less move our boxes from city to city and show up to school on time. There are shiny moments and moments of gratitude and lots of dock sitting with sips of whiskey (that contribute to those moments of gratitude), but needless to say it has been full of tremors.
And all of that (although there is much, much more) played into this photoshoot with Norah. We’ve been having convos regarding moving and feeling lonely and leaving things we love. We’ve asked ourselves what does it feel like to ‘lose’ those things? How do we carry them with us? What do we leave behind? What remains in those places and relationships we left? How do we keep remembering? What does it feel like to want to be in a place that no longer exists as ‘ours’? What does abandonment feel like/look like? (Yes, there is the flip side of how do we step forward, embrace the new, engage the community and friends around us that love us…and we are doing that too. Writing about it is for another time.)
We’ve verbally and emotionally touched on a lot of things. She also knows that I often create images out of those spaces or try to explore life through photos in a way that helps express my experiences. So, we curated a short series, 10 images where we felt safe enough to explore the ideas. We crafted this together. The ideas for composition, tone, light, etc were ping-ponged back and forth. And, I freaking loved that process with her. So much to learn.
So here we have it. A little glimpse into an experiment and an exploration of our changes and our hearts and feelings.
TECH SPECS
Shot on Cinestill bwXX rated at 400. Originally motion picture film, so it gives it a little glow. Mamiya RZ67, which is huge and amazing and I am still learning what it can do. We, honestly, wanted the scene to be darker and more ominous than it actually was. Time of day and time we had to shoot were factors. So, I shot this normally and underexposed a bit in post. Underexposing black and white film in camera isn’t always the best idea, leaves the negative dense and muddy, but I coulda tried that too. It’s a different technique for me. I’m typically a realist and want my images to look exactly how they looked in the scene. But, the original vision was kinda dramatic and sad, so we darkened them a little bit.
I also frequently shoot with less visual activity, meaning create simpler shots. This abandoned house and all the trees around it gave me a run for my money in terms of what my eyes do with so much visual noise. In addition to that, I rarely (if ever) shoot above f8 (bad practice, maybe). The ones from the outside of the house were shot at f16, which also gave me a run for my money.
Needless to say, this was an exploration on all levels. From camera to photographer to muse, to post processing. And it was beautiful. And it resonates with me in ways that maybe only she and I can cherish. And I’m ok with that. The draw to the mystery and meaning of that is an important part of the process.
It is the thing that succeeds when words fail. Where all that remains is a feeling.
I made some time for water and sand and soaked up as many pacific ocean ions as I could today. Watched aggressive seagulls tear into people’s picnic lunches while they swam. Watched kids decorate themselves with long trails of slimy seaweed. Watched college girls adjust themselves in their bikinis. Watched men stare.
And, in the midst of that, I breathed (because those ions really actually scientifically do a lot of good things for our bodies, including enhance immunity and increase mood…and the disgusting way in which those men ogled made me hyperventilate).
But, the point of this post is none of that. It was a beautiful and energy filled couple hours. My only agenda? Swim. Dunk under as many waves as I could until I tired of that and slapped my body down in the sand like a little kid, no towel, nothing. I thumbed through a chapter of The Secret Garden. Repeated the whole cycle.
I toted a polaroid with me, which is of no surprise to any of you at this point. Instant film has become somewhat of a cult following for my self. I crave it. It is pure magic. No joke. Everything that happens in instant film is a friggin’ miracle. And I have surprised myself in how much it has won me over…how much I see it as ‘real’ film work, not just playful snapshots I can write in sharpie on and pin to my cork board (80’s/90’s kids, can I get an amen?).
So, I’m at Tower 5, no towel, no bag. Literally, a tattered vintage book, a polaroid camera and me in my bathing suit. And it is gorgeous out. So, I walk; past the jetties and the other 4 lifeguard towers to the pier. (Also walking by the joint smokers and the people selling joints and the people drumming up business for the people selling joints…oh, and the people actually drumming…IYKYK OB). The OB pier has been closed off and on for the past 8 months. The construction of the pier and the angle at which it drops down near the middle, makes it susceptible to damage during winter storm conditions. It was reopened in July after fixing some pump issues for the bathrooms near the cafe. Fun fact, when I was in college, friends and I used to come down to the pier during storm surges, stand at it’s lowest point, hang our heads over the railing, hold our breath and hold on for dear life while we were quite literally inside a wave.
Again, none of this is the point. Instant film is a doozy. It is time sensitive and temperature sensitive and light sensitive. It shoots, then spits out, then needs to be covered and not moved while the chemicals do their thing and the paper transforms from all the connection. (DO NOT shake your Polaroids, friends, it is a widely dispersed lie that has damaged millions upon millions of magical images, not to mention potentially flinging toxic chemicals into others faces or the ozone or whatever.). So, I’m on the pier in a wet bathing suit toting a camera (ditched the book on the staircase to have my hands relatively free) and…where do I hide the images as they spit out? Not in my wet bathing suit, not on the pier railing to blow off with the ocean breeze. It just so happens that the Polaroid camera I was using is a boxy one. The one that basically folds up like a cube. So, as you have already figured out, I shot each image, pulled it out, then placed it under the camera itself. Photographers are MacGyvers, let me tell you. Stacking 8 slippery images on top of each other while also trying to fold up and unfold and compose and shoot proved to be a little more cumbersome than I wanted it to be. Not to mention the fishhook I stepped on barefoot near the fish gutting sink while I was taking that cafe shot.
Not the point. But, here are two shots that just didn’t get completely developed properly. (Because, again, proper film storage, temperature, light, motion, etc are all factors that have to work together to create the magic). Most likely this was an issue with the developer in the developing pod on that edge of the film. Yes, that thick white frame at the bottom of a Polaroid actually does something! It’s not just a convenient way to hold it. Also possible that this area of the image was exposed more when being placed under the camera, leaving the lighter edge open to the sunshine and interacting with that developing pod differently than the part that was covered.
Point made. Yes, finally. There are countless unexpected things that can happen when shooting with this film stock. And, yes, that is part of the magic. The unexpected, the beautiful accidents. The interaction with the environment at the time of shooting that gives that one exact image more character. It can never be repeated, duplicated or reprinted. An instant film image is one that records one tiny moment in all the moments of the experiences and exploration of this world we find ourselves in. And it can never be done exactly the same way again.
(And, this series of one pack of film, 8 shots, is in my top 40 at the moment.)
This is a raw journal entry, born out of what feels to be a dramatically long internal struggle. It is me, sitting on my deck in the mountains, staring at pines and aspens, in the midst of racing thoughts and deep depression. It is my realization that nature is my only ally, my regulator. It is almost fall. The autumnal equinox pulling me to face outward as well as inward, begging the past and future to merge in the present. A moment in the year where there are equal parts light and dark. Oscar Wilde said, “…and all at once, summer collapsed into fall.” And I see them as lovers, and I see the exhaustion…and the collapse is the comfort of knowing there is something/someone there to catch you.
At some point this will all be made more clear; the life circumstances, the mental health challenges. At some point, I will be willing and able to open it all up, to face things I’m afraid of, to step into a new life and new way of being and to (hopefully) talk coherently about the challenges in a way that will usher in understanding and a vision for moving forward with less of a sigh. Until then, we have broken thoughts, resonance, emotions, heartfelt renderings and words strung together to attempt to represent it all.
September 22nd, 2023…
And life passes me by like the wind. No changes made, no marks left but scars.
Feeling so unimportant. Not sure what to step into. It’s no one’s fault but my own; no one’s doing but my undoing. I’ve let the trolls get to me. The voices that manipulate me into long dark corridors of self doubt. A catacombs, basically. I’m still face down in the weeds. Whether I was pushed or laid down willingly, is of no consequence. I’m still here.
Some days are awful. So full of wallowing, of tip toeing around on creaky floor boards, of wearing my wool coat in the heatwaves of August.
The leaves rustle a ‘hello’, an ‘i see you there, hi’. A ‘welcome’. A ‘come and play’. They offer a secret handshake, an entrance into a world where heavy burdens are dropped at the door. But, I shush them and shun them and turn my back. I am in no mood for their dance. At times, I envy their playfulness, their contentment. But, today, I am sullen. Then angry. Then numb.
Displaced in a way that is selfish, conceited, that doesn’t make sense. That feels spoiled and pouty to others, even to myself. Who are we to compare? But, we do. Have you ever not?
If I’m fully honest, there are those days when something close to happiness comes like a premature contraction. So quick I’m not sure anything happened at all. Maybe just gas or anxiety. It’s fleeting. Fake. Most days are spent in silent deliberation. Conversations with versions of myself whom are either more happy or more sad or more melancholy or more pragmatic or more impulsive.
None of us are ever sure which one should take the lead at any given moment.
And, all of us are afraid.
Idleness becomes us and we revert to the childhood immaturity of best friend one day, enemy the next. Playing the silent game with dirty looks and long hard stares.
Some envy the opportunity to be idle; the chance to sit down, to stare at the trees and not be bothered by verbal inquiries and not have to rush off to something and not have to work their knuckles to the bone day after day after bloody day. I, for one, am sick of this charade, this prison amongst myself.
So, I go out to the forest, the floor thick and spongy with pine needles; with the things that have been let go. It’s an aimless walking at first. A sigh. A mutter. A shortness of breath, then a heaving. Branches reach down. Leaves whisper.
I fight them. The comforting. The beckoning.
‘They are malicious,’ I tell myself. ‘They are here only for themselves.’
But, they ceaselessly continue their lullaby, their presence. The endless brushing upon eachother, their connectedness.
‘I won’t let you heal me,’ I say. ‘I’m only using you for a moment of respite; for a sense of escape.’
I wield my stubbornness like a sword. Threatening with near spastic thrashing. Meeting nothing but air. Roots rise up from the earth, trip me, take me out, roll me over. I’m staring skyward, dirt spattered on slimy cheeks, lips caked with blood and spit.
The indomitable display of sunlight cast on whispers, reigning down, covering me, scooping me up and taking me home.
How many things can cause a heart to break, to feel it’s own emptiness, to startle
awake
before the sun
before the dog, before the slumbering-beauty-child tip toes up the
cold stairs.
I go out.
Walk.
Peek at the early morning through straw colored strands, tangles, swollen eyes.
Slippered feet soak through to now soggy socks. A remnant of last night’s downpour,
a reminder
of my impulsiveness
And that I’m shivering.
It’s an aimless meander, I suppose, among the trees that have yet to yawn
to stretch
to roll out of the fog’s embrace.
And I am suddenly jealous.
The eternity of their affair
whispered at dusk
bold, heavy, wet, heaving
exhaled sweetly
to a brightening
lonely sky
swearing
never to tell
their
secrets.
Did you ever play that game as a kid? Or maybe it was less of a game and more a survival tactic. A way to make ourselves believe that we could disappear. that our consequences just wouldn’t happen if we couldn’t see them coming. That we could remain safe in our little blanket pod, hidden from the outside world.
There are always times we want to escape. Times we want to hide, cover up, go invisible on everyone. There were times growing up where I would fight with my siblings, scribble on the side of the couch with permanent marker, lie to my parents, then run up to my room, sit point blank in the middle of my bed and throw a blanket over my head. Believing the myth whole-heartedly. That if I can’t see you, you definitely cannot see me and will walk by without even noticing I am there, will disregard the error in my ways and forget completely why you came up to my room, stop looking for me and declare me innocent on all counts.
At 6, I was the mastermind of deception. At 43, I’ve continued to carry on the legacy. I have dragged bits of childishness into my adult life. Believing that I can escape the error of my own ways by covering myself up. Believing that I can be invisible at any point in time, because I so choose. It’s a safety net I’ve carried with me.
That self imposed safety is an illusion. And I’m slowly debunking the myth.
It is a chapter of the bigger story. A plot that is beginning to be excavated. Digging into these parts of myself through the only medium I really know how to do it in. This self portrait work is my long form documentary. My visual memoir. Looking at 40+ years of life and figuring out how to embrace it, reframe it, and carry it along with me into the next 40+ years of life.
As for the tech talk, I took a risk with this film stock. I’ve read a little about it and believed myself to be incompetent in shooting with it, based on it’s presumed need to be spot on with exposure (which I’m not). I’ve held onto it for two years. Well, my b+w film hoard had dwindled to 1 remaining single roll and I felt I wanted to shoot. I felt that, maybe, just maybe, with a new-to-me camera I know nothing about and a film stock that was pretty much out of my league, it must be the perfect storm. I will say, I am impressed with the versatility of this film. Cinestill bwXX is a variable ISO film stock. These were shot in very low light, film rated at 1600, shot at a 15th of a second and push processed +4. This film handled all of that like a champ. And I will most definitely give it another go.
Self portrait work is an interesting animal. Rabid, sometimes, feral almost always. But, despite it’s inconsistent and wild nature, and despite what (maybe) the general public views as the oh-so-commonplace selfie, I fully consider self portrait work, WORK. For anyone that’s doing it. There is so much to be learned when seeing ourselves subjectively. There is so much to say when choosing to portray ourselves a certain way. There are so many questions posed in the exploration that may or may not lead to answers, which is probably mostly not the point anyway. I’ve mentioned before that my self portrait work has functioned as therapy for me.
This particular shot was intentional. The way the light was navigated and placed was motivated by the direct bright light that enters my kitchen window every morning. The sink just beneath that I wash dishes in at all times of the day. I knew I couldn’t be in focus handholding this particular camera from only an arms stretch away, which was on purpose as well. It was the shot I was actually hoping for.
However, I wasn’t hoping to see what I actually saw when flipping this over. Because, quite honestly, it made me cry. And then it made me say, yep, that’s what you’re like right now. You are gonna have to face that. That is very real. You are split. A dark chasm of shadow that disconnects part of you from the other part of you. Split relationships, split loyalties, split personas, split psyches, split value systems.
Split. Split. Split.
Been awhile.
And, I don’t expect you to understand or know fully and, quite honestly, I’m not trying to explain it anyway.
But, there are moments that do. That can. That reach down and pull me out of my melancholy, my numbness, my stuckness, my fear. That zing me back into internal movement. A reminder of the human experience with pain with love with mystery with beauty with risk with adventure. That is art. Art is that. It is the thing that succeeds where words fail. Where all that remains is a feeling.
And that may be all I need to move again. If even temporarily.
A single frame on a nondescript roll of expired film.
The gift of a voyeuristic experience into past versions of myself.
I’d like to spend more time here again, sharing words and images in a different format. INSTAGRAM currently feels like a carnival of cheap thrills; a side show where we peek and drool, stuff our faces with sugary treats, wipe traces of sticky fingers on our pant legs as we slip out silently toward the next glowing tent.
I’d like to create without that. I’d like to be able to share without that. Maybe the life we now live will never be so pure and kind as to allow us the space, but I’d like to try to exist there. Or at least create a space where words and images have more merit or impact. Where they can slow down and seep in over time.
So, I am here. As permanently or intermittently as my changing circumstances allow for, as my emotional/mental stability can handle. I have a few photo book visions I’d like to actually start crafting into something tangible and some print sales to get up on this site. In due time, I guess. I’m going to have to learn to be ok with that.
I truly hope you will stick around for a bit and I truly hope the connection offered through this is one that resonates, one that seems worth it.
New chapter, same ache. As much as I want to call it transformation, it may very well begin with death.
It’s been a long time coming and a long time since I have existed in this space, doing self portrait work. It’s not always the most comfortable place for me to be. Sometimes terrifying, actually. Scared to allow myself to be exposed. Scared to allow myself to embrace uncertainty, to sit in postures and feel feels I didn’t know where there, to see myself in pain and shame. To be so deeply sad. To own the ugliness of my actions and words at times.
To ache.
There are so many pivotal changes on this horizon and I feel it can only begin with a long season of darkness. A collapsing into myself, maybe. It is no longer a wallowing in self-pity (which I fully admit I have done at times), but an embrace of my shadows, a choice to feel that darkness in it’s fullest, listen carefully for what it has to teach me.
Who knows how long this lasts? Death, transformation, change, healing? None of it is linear or chronological. And (aside from polaroids), nothing of value I’ve ever created has been instant.
I’ve been revisiting past writings. Poems, journal entries, bits of words strung together and scribbled on envelopes scrunched into my desk drawer, an entire two college years of poems vandalized by the ball point pens of my poetry workshop classmates stacked into a transparent pink expandable folder. There are times as artists, humans (really), when different mediums and forms of creative expression resonate more with us in our current season. In addition to alternative processes and polaroids, this is currently mine.
It’s enlightening to see past versions of myself. To remember my state of being at the time these were written. To see if I’ve moved past or deeper into the issues at hand. Most are raw and unedited. Just beginnings or emotional rants. Some will be drafted again into something more legitimate, something printable even. For now they are here. Intermittently. Holding my hand at a time when I’m desperate for the company.
I beg you to read these out loud.
This was written in my journal in November 2017. I was on another of my (what I now call) internal crisis trips where I went somewhere out in nature, hiked for days, didn’t eat, slept in my car, bawled my eyes out and screamed a lot at noone and nowhere in particular, met myself in ways I didn’t know existed.
This trip had gone awry due to three days of drenching rain and I remember writing this, half drunk on cheap whiskey in the back of my car with the hatch opened and the rain waterfalling off the back end into a muddy trench.
“Life begins on the other side of despair.” — Sartre
I recently found this poem I wrote on the plane to Japan in February. I was reading an off-the-wall novel from the library about the multi-verse. I can’t even remember the title at this point and it was odd, not something I would normally choose, but actually a last minute handover from my teenage daughter when I asked if she had something I could read to keep me busy on a long flight. It wasn’t something I would pick up again, but there were moments I needed it. One liners that pricked something inside me.
That being said, these words tumbled out feverishly and raw onto the pages of my journal as a response to Sartre’s quote and the author’s one staccato-esque line:
“I am alive.”
My hope is that you read this aloud, wherever you find yourself right now.
I thought I had words. Or, at least, I thought I would have words if I gave it enough time. But, I didn’t and don’t. And, I haven’t for a really long time. And, in this season of unexpected muteness, this void of clearly thought out and cleverly strung words, I’m learning to lean into the words of others. Reading, listening, quieting, engaging conversations to hear the souls of others come alive through their voice, to shift perspectives, to gain wisdom. I’m learning a lack of words isn’t a lack of processing or a void of power or stalled transformation.
So, in the midst of that and in the midst of digging silently through my literary trash bin, I have things that are meaningful that I just can’t make sense of in words. So, here are some pictures from Joshua Tree that I like. An experience that moves me every time I go. Art, heat, exploration, poky plants, rock climbing that scares the shit out of you, wind, unique people, desert tortoises, daughters with endless spirit.
Phone photos and point and shoot camera photos from 6 year olds and photos from a no name film stock on a generously gifted camera. Photos of other peoples’ art and the same photos on different cameras and photos that are still in a camera on a roll of film that is yet to be completely shot and developed (maybe next week). Photos and photos and more photos.
Joshua Tree NP // Noah Purifoy Outdoor Museum // Ramsey 29 Motel // Art Queen + Crochet Museum // Wine and Rock Shop
(Jeez Louise…that contrast. Woa. I love it.)
It’s taken me almost 2 weeks to write this. It’s taken me almost 2 weeks to sift through the feels of a deeply powerful and weighty experience of my only son graduating from high school and turning 19 within 5 days of each other. It’s taken me almost two weeks for the magnitude of the bigger picture of his story to tumble out into words that barely do justice to how I feel about it. But, here they are. I have many pictures of his mother that, out of respect for Perez’s request, won’t be shared here. Maybe someday. When it’s not so immediate. When it’s not so visibly on our sleeves. Maybe not. Maybe some things are just meant to be silently cherished. For now, this.
This is Justine.
The mother of my son.
And the sole reason he walked across that stage last weekend with a high school diploma in hand.
There are often specifically powerful moments in the life of motherhood. Ones we remember with acuteness and clarity. Ones that prick our senses and pull at our heartstrings. This is one of them.
It’s times like this…milestones, monuments, rites of passage; moments where our kids feel so adult that we naturally go back to the years when they weren’t. Back to their beginnings. Back to their births or their firsts…day of school, haircut, lost tooth. We temper the fear of being left behind, of loss, of aging, with the remembrance of presence and youth. That remembering is vital to how we process as parents and how we move forward into a new season. It is both grief and hope in the same breath. It is acceptance of our temporary-ness, of Times one way arrow and the beauty of the movement of life.
Adoptive parents, specifically, have a unique experience in this endeavor. Often times we can’t go back to our child’s beginnings. There are frequently no poignantly personal images we can conjure up. There are many missing pieces to the puzzles of our children’s lives. There are secrets, unknowns, painful experiences that have been pushed out of memory.
So, we go back to the only beginnings we have, the beginnings we know.
I go back 13 years to a dimly lit office in a concrete school building. I am sitting in a slatted, white plastic lawn chair pushed up against a concrete wall knees length away from a thick wood desk. Behind that desk is a pastor I have come to know and I am fixated on his dark face. He is sweating and wiping his forehead with a small swath of fabric. A colorfully patterned curtain shifts slightly with a breeze coming through a slit of an open window. On my left, Justine, my son’s biological mother. Short, her face round with wide cheekbones, strong posture. We have just met. On my right, a 6 year old Perez, skinny and wiry and dark. I hold both of their hands and bury my eyes into the face of the Pastor directly in front of me as he translates Justine’s words. His English is understandable through a thick accent and a slight lisp.
I can feel the heat of her body next to mine, feel her breath as she talks over me directly to Perez. ‘This is your mother,’ she says, tapping her finger on my chest. My tears come fast. ‘Respect her. Do as she tells you to do. Love her like she is your own. She will not abandon you. She will walk with you…’ and at that point my chest is heaving and everyone’s words are dull, the face of the pastor is blurred through hot tears streaming down my face. I refuse to let go of either of their hands to wipe them and my chin literally drops to my heaving chest. There are no more words I understand. She keeps talking. He keeps translating. I keep crying. Three overlapping voices, one of Luganda, one in English, one of heavy breaths, all intense and deep and full of passion. I remember nothing more of those words; of that motherly direction to her only son. I remember nothing more of that moment, but the view of tear drops soaking quickly into the fabric of my skirt and the sweat building in between strongly pressed palms.
I weep because I am afraid. I weep because I have no idea what it means to be a mom to him, to try to live up to a love that is being acted out in that very room at that very moment. A love that was loving him into an opportunity. A love that was utterly selfless.
And the night of his graduation, after midnight, after all the parties and friends and smiles and confetti. I sat outside, whiskey in hand, my chin dropped to my chest, my tears once again soaking into my skirt. And I drank and wept and remembered. Not because my kid is grown and graduated and I’m missing his younger days. But, because I felt the weight of his story. The imperfect balance of what was stolen from him and traded in for this precise moment. The selfless and desperate acts of a Ugandan woman who loved him into this exact space in time. The weighty understanding of my place in this story. His story. Her story. And I can say with conviction: this is not my victory. This is theirs to own. His hard work. His courage. Her unending and selfless love. To honor that is the only thing that makes sense right now.
Over the course of many years of trips to Uganda and countless hours spent in homes being honored by the people who are connected by blood to my son, I’ve realized, time and time again, that I had/have huge shoes to fill. That the act of selfless love is never a single ’act’.
And I’ve realized, time and time again, what it’s like for a village to raise a child. For a God to knit together and orchestrate a life. For people to walk alongside people. To guide, to cheer, to love as one body.
And I honor that in you, Justine. And I honor that in all of you across the globe who have chosen to give of what you had and what you held dear, so that this child could have a chance at something bigger. That he could thrive.
And, well, he did it.
And you did it.
For the past 3 years, I have had the privilege of photographing my son’s football games from the field. I don’t like football, but I love watching him play. And, secretly, standing on the sidelines in the midst of a messy jumble of sweaty, armored teens erupting in shouts is something that grew on me in ways I never expected. The constant motion of the machine of a team, the focus, the camaraderie. From the loudest shouts to the barely audible pep talk of one player to another. I grew to love it. And, I see it as a complete privilege that I was granted permission to be in that space, to share a tidbit of my son’s experience as a football player.
As most of you know, Perez has had the dream to be an NFL quarterback since 6th grade, a year before I was finally coerced enough to let him play. That dream has swelled and deflated and changed shape and acquired wisdom and been forced down a different path many times over the past 6 years. And, well, that is currently not the make-up of the dream anymore. But, the process of those years has been vitally influential and has taken energy and commitment and devotion. And a willingness to morph and flux and change.
Perez has given so much of his life to this activity. He has been dedicated to learning, staying up late studying playbooks, practicing after practice, working his body to exhaustion. Building up teammates, sticking through failures. The whole deal. It’s a lot. Football is a lot.
And when you spend 4 years of high school going into battle with the kids standing next to you and the coaches who have raised you and you have sharpened up and sucked up and went over and above everything that was expected of you to give to something you love for a damn long time and it ends… well, the feels of all of those things flood into a boy all at once. The memories of all things put into this one thing. The release of so many emotions that weren’t ever given space until the finality of the last game.
In addition to digital, I shot two rolls of film that night. There was something monumental that needed to be honored. His devotion, his energy, his effort; important moments that needed to be preserved and made permanent.
Shockingly, I realized these are the very first images I have of my son in film. At 18 years old.
I can promise you they will not be the last.
And, that will not be his last. Last high school game, yes. But, there is a promising future ahead for him. We don’t know all the details quite yet, but this year begs to show us even more of what this kid is capable of on that field.
The Statue of Liberty, on Liberty Island in New York harbor, is an obvious tourist attraction and an icon that should not be missed when in NYC. That being said, when I photographed her, I was in a very different place on every level. In looking up specific dates of arrival in the harbor, etc. to add to this IG post, I was enlightened to a history of her that I was never taught in grade school or that I never paid attention to in any other facet. I have been ignorant of the measure of this symbol on so many levels. Yes, the statue of Liberty was given as a gift from the French people commemorating the alliance of France and the United States during the American Revolution. Arriving in New York Harbor in 1885, it was the hope of many French liberals that democracy would prevail and that freedom and justice for all would be attained. No, freedom and justice for all does not mean freedom and justice for all. The ‘iconic representation of American freedom and liberation’ that it was intended to be, pertained to a very limited and elite people group. The statue as a representation of ‘freedom’ and ‘enlightenment’ did not and possibly still does not represent that to all.
The following excerpt is from a history of the Statue of Liberty from Indiana University in 2005, done as a historical research study for the National Parks Service. It is mind opening. Read this excerpt and continue to read even further on the document itself: http://www.cesu.umn.edu/sites/cesu.umn.edu/files/statueofliberty.pdf
Perhaps due to the disparity between the ideals of freedom that the statue was said to represent and the reality that most African Americans experienced, their attitude toward the statue was understandably ambivalent. A Philadelphia African American paper, the Christian Recorder, followed the Statue of Liberty’s progress intently from fundraising appeals to the dedication itself. The paper’s November 4, 1886 editorial was a sarcastic reaction to the pomp and bland patriotism of the celebration. After recounting the decorations and some of the speeches, the editorial stated:
To us, who are struggling to build a standing foundation for right life and growth, hardly thinking of looking to such heights as the conception of monuments building, all this display has somewhat the effect of the gilded mental phenomena of joyous dream, and passes away with too much of its regretfulness.
This comparison of the optimism and celebration of the dedication to a joyous dream emphasized the editorialist’s belief that official speeches at the dedication had little to do with the lives of most African Americans. The editorial further satirized the emphasis on business and economic opportunity at the dedication:
But when read the history of those Bartholdi statuists as it appears on the long page of their history, observing whence they came, out of what degradation and obscurity, out of what ignorance and vice, out of what barbarism and shame - all by internal energies, aided by that benign influence always given from above to the struggling energies of God's sons in their attempts to regain their divine excellence, we are encouraged to purer thoughts and nobler deeds.
Frustration at the disparity between the idealized version of liberty offered at the dedication and the daily lives of many African Americans led to a sarcastic disavowal of any connection to the Statue of Liberty.
The Cleveland Gazette had an even harsher reaction to the dedication. Just weeks after its lighthearted and approving description of the statue’s festivities on Bedloe’s Island, the editors of the Cleveland Gazette used the Statue of Liberty as a symbol to protest the failings of liberty in American society. On November 27, 1886, the Gazette published an editorial:
It is proper that the torch of the Bartholdi statue should not be lighted until this country becomes a free one in reality. ‘Liberty enlightening the world’ indeed! The expression makes us sick. This government is a howling farce. It cannot or rather does not protect its citizens within its own borders. Shove the Bartholdi statue, torch and all, into the ocean until the ‘liberty’ of this country is such as to make it possible for an industrious and inoffensive colored man in the South to earn a respectable living for himself and his family, without being ku-kluxed perhaps murdered, his daughter and wife outraged, and his property destroyed. The idea of the ‘liberty’ of this country ‘enlightening the world,’ or even Patagonia, is ridiculous in the extreme.
This editorial was the first instance where the idealized freedom enjoyed by United States citizens—symbolized by the Statue of Liberty—was contrasted against a violent reality by an African American writer. In a world where African Americans could be lynched with few consequences for the vigilantes, the statue’s promise of the ability to live a life free of government intervention—as many of the dedication speakers interpreted it—rang hollow. Many African Americans would have welcomed government intervention to end lynchings.
That being said, I’m hesitant to post these images for obvious reasons. Do some research. Do a lot of research. Learn this history. It is not nearly as glamorous and honorable as I was taught.
Knowing what I know now, would I still have photographed her? Yes.
Would how I represented her and the ways in which I viewed her have changed? Also, yes.
Interestingly, many of the images I captured were from behind her. I, in no way, did that with any reference to the following insight from W.E.B Du Bois’s Autobiography, but, I think it is particularly powerful now.
The Statue of Liberty was not entirely anathema to African Americans in the 1890s, however. In his Autobiography of W. E. B. Du Bois: A Soliloquy on Viewing My Life From The Last Decade of the First Century, Du Bois detailed a trip to Europe between 1892 and 1894. After describing his travels, Du Bois discussed his return to America by ship, amusingly telling about the immigration of some of the people on this ship and through his words in effect including himself in an immigrant narrative. He described the class system on the ship, the barriers of color in place, and the “half- educated men” on the ship coming to America for opportunity. As in many immigrant narratives, the Statue of Liberty occupied a place toward the end. Du Bois described his experience upon sighting the statue, not as a quasi-religious feeling or overwhelming joy, but rather with some amusement as he recalled an incident from his travels. As Du Bois related, when he saw the statue, “I know not what multitude of emotions surged in the others, but I had to recall that mischievous little French girl whose eyes twinkled as she said: ‘Oh, yes, the Statue of Liberty! With its back toward America, and its face toward France!’” Du Bois thus subverted the traditional immigrant narrative: first placing himself as an African American among the white immigrants, second by reacting with amusement to the sight of the statue, and third by reminding the world that the Statue of Liberty was French, not American in origin. It may also have been that Du Bois saw the statue’s position “with its back toward America” as ironically suggestive of the position that white America and the promises of American liberty had in relation to African Americans such as himself.
This is where I am right now. In a place where, what I was taught or what I learned or what I experienced as a white upper middle class woman, was created to uphold and support a patriarchy of white christian men. And it is a vital awakening. One that continues to break open and peel back layers and expose many things inside of me and many things I do by default. It has formed how I create. And, I am currently devouring the things, such as this history, that are setting me to rights and putting me on a path of an understanding of true freedom and liberation and what that might really mean ‘for all’.
Some people have iPhone photo dumps or brain dumps, where they just need to get all the stuff out in order to clear space for new stuff or to let it stop freezing them up and move into a new version or move forward. Well, this is a literary version of the same thing. A dump of the past month of conversations and internal workings. It’s all stuff that matters and that I will continue to process and probably continue to write about more cohesively. But for now, the dump and the vision for moving ahead.
I’m still recovering from the past couple weeks. No, not because I was sick, but because I was burdened. I’ve been sifting through so many things, excavating….and, it’s one of those weird times where you know nothing actually ‘happened’, but it feels like everything happened. And the world looks different. Like tiny little pieces of things start chipping off…small micro griefs, minuscule let downs, emotional whispers and soon enough you realize crap is different and you feel heavy.
I was recently talking with a friend of mine who’s going through a tough time right now. She made the comment, ‘how are you so eloquent all the damn time?’ And I laughed, in text mind you (lol), and corrected her, knowing that I am not so eloquent all the damn time. And this is one of those times. Where I’m not crafting something eloquent because I feel like what needs to come out just needs to come out. Sometimes, if I take the time for promptings and thoughts to become eloquent before I write them down, they slip out the back door without saying goodbye or leaving a note. So here we are, words are jumbled and weird and there’s too many of them and there isn’t any great vocabulary or any proper punctuation or anything like that. Just words on a page that maybe fill in some gaps. More like my journals, full of scribbles in the margins and scratch-outs and incomplete sentences and that type of stuff. Exactly what my inner life feels like a lot of the time.
So, like I said, the past couple weeks have been heavy for me. I’ve been struggling through grief with friends and realizing the grief I hold of my own. Trying to understand medical diagnoses. I’ve stared at the wall a lot and stared out the window a lot. I’ve sat in the same chair for far too long and tried to just deal with stuff in my body, emotionally and physically. I’ve had fights with my kids and fights with my spouse and fights with the dog and fights with myself and fights with technology.
I’ve been furious at friends, harboring jealousy, feeling unwanted.
And, at the same time, digging into questions about art and being an artist and having lots of unique and multilayered conversations with people along those lines. Which also lends itself to lots of staring at the wall. It’s less about art per se, and more about the inner workings of art, where it’s coming from…things I’ve spouted about in IGTV videos previously, the why’s of creating and sharing. I’ve always felt inferior and like, ‘not an artist’, because I’ve never had that totally dialed in. I’ve taken some personal hits as of late from people whom I love to no end who have pointed out all those inconsistencies. I’ve gone into deeper depth with other artists and good friends about functioning on autopilot instead of being intentional. And then dug into the questions of my autopilot being geared toward making me happy and satisfying myself and validating myself. And is that unique to me or is that an across-the-board human thing. Addressing accusations of vanity and self importance and looking intently into narcissism and what I do and have done that is inline with all that and how my self-deprecating style basically begs people to validate me. How I have a history of preloading because I’m insecure.
And more, responding to a year of convos and a few really intense books and, in general, the disastrous nature of the racial and political temperature in America. The fact that my kids are black and I’m white. I’ve started seeing the make-up of the larger systems of power I live in and been seriously shell shocked in situations and in realization of things I do and work I create that perpetuates it all. Sometimes being mad at myself for it taking so damn long to see this, but at the same time just wanting to continue to learn and dismantle. And, dismantling…dismantling more systems of conservative christianity specific to the church and small group of christians I was surrounded by as I grew up. How those systems have shaped my sexuality, my ability or inability to deal with real internal struggles, my humanitarian work, the roles and structure of my marriage, adoption.
It kinda all comes down to feeling crazy heavy. And also paralyzing. In January, I took a break from social stuff again to figure out what was going on inside my psyche and what I really wanted to give my time to. That’s when I felt motivated to start getting my work out there. The work that is just sitting there staring back at me from behind a screen. So I got excited and motivated to start selling prints. Motivated to commit to valuing what I do. To commit to being consistent. And that’s a personal goal, something I struggle with and feel is connected to bigger insecurities. So, I made this commitment and started selling The Boardwalk Series and got all into that and then decided it wasn’t what I wanted to give my time to. And also got sidetracked by all this deeper stuff. And I just changed my mind.
Even more than that, I’ve been crazy frustrated with the digital process on all levels. I’m pissed with the frantic, frenzied nature of shooting, the unsatisfying experience of files on devices, the instant need for output, the fake feeling of ink on paper, the fleeting nature of all of it. I was bred on black and white film. It is my first love and the one I am being drawn back into. It is tangible and long lasting and I’m tethered to it. There is mystery and accidents. And I’m realizing that pull for me in this particular moment in time is not coincidental. It mirrors internal processes. A getting back to roots. A healing. There is fear in me associated with a need for permanence, the desire to not be forgotten. Wanting for things to slow down. There is the internal satisfaction of using my hands and my body and my brain to accomplish things. The sensory satisfaction of the sounds and feels and smells of all things film.
It’s a new beginning or an old beginning or a beginning again. But, regardless, I am a beginner. A beginner, but with enough muscle memory that I tingle when I start to get it right again, when I relax a little in the aspect of moving my camera and settings and focus and I start to see the world again. I learned early, how to shoot with 35mm black and white film, how to process it in a darkroom and how to shoot my camera completely manually. But nothing much beyond that. I had 3 years of learning at the community college level, then just played with it. And I was a really crappy shooter. And saying that, I’m actually more excited about getting back to this at this point in my photography career. I am a much better shooter. Better at composition, better at getting myself where I need to make the shot, better at making changes in camera. But, I don’t want to stay there, with just shooting 35mm. I want to learn this shit. Figure out what each film does and their personalities and the personalities of different cameras and lenses. I want to know this. Like really know this. And fall back in love.
That being said, it is all a process. And on some level, that is what ties me to it also. The process. I’m a believer in learning from process. So, in desiring to get back into this and at the same time wanting to be consistent in showing work, I’m taking this train back. Back to the archives. Back to binders filled with black and white negatives. I’ve been pouring over these negs and test prints and contact sheets, spreading them the length of my kitchen table late at night. Engaging the world I lived in and the worlds I photographed. I’m looking back at marks I made on contact sheets of images I liked then and laughing, because, quite honestly, most of them seriously suck. I’m slowing down. Knowing there is so much more intent and focus and attention to craft involved. Less instantaneous validation, but more the validation from knowing that you put so much into something you loved and you were able to create something you take pride in. And it is filling me up in ways that noone really even needs to know about.
So with that, I got out every film camera I own and am shooting with all the expired film I could find in boxes and bins and bags. I really have nothing to show for myself at this point. Except the archives. To start sharing images that literally noone has ever seen. Early practice of visual design elements. Travels. My nephews. It’s a practice I need right now. A process I want to enliven in myself. Some images totally suck. Some are ok. Some are borderline good. Some suck and I love them anyway. Some could have been good, but I messed up. But, I’m putting this stuff out there. To engage a part of me that needs to be expressed, to stay consistent with continuing to see my processes as valuable and to give the opportunity for anyone who wants to to engage something in themselves too.
This work was shot on 35mm film black and white film, developed by me in the school lab or at home in my bathroom. Obviously, these are digital scans, which is just how we have to roll right now. I’m not printing these, so feeling ok about it. I realize this is a pivot from where I was headed and adding a completely new dimension to anything anyone sees on my current social media platform. But, pivoting is kind of normal for me (and ask anyone I’ve ever been in a relationship with, it is infuriating, also). I change my mind hourly (hence the goal to stick with sharing work and be consistent with that). And, I don’t exist in a compartmentalized life where everything fits nicely into Tupperware and stores like a puzzle in the fridge. All the spaces of my life ooze into the other ones, so it feels really inconsistent all the time. It is really inconsistent all the time. And, my social presence on Instagram is really evidence of that. One day that means I’m playing play dough with my 5 year old, the next I’m climbing a mountain, the next day I’m taking pictures of myself naked and trying to figure out why I feel so sad all the time. And now I’m adding some early film photography work to the mix. So be it. It is what it is. It’s all there kind of coexisting in the same spaces internally in me and in the same physical spaces a lot of the time, too.
So, I realize it jumps around a lot. And I’m ok with that.