Being a creative individual, or at least claiming to be one, there is the cliche element of self-obsession. When seconds, minutes, hours are spent pointing expensive glass at others, self awareness began to ascend. Clearly stated in the tones, the forms, and in the harshness of light, I’ve unknowingly discovered dark things about myself. Every sleepless moment, every wordless conversation, every chin lowering is an internal re-visit of my own darkness. At the end of the day, not many individuals care about the creative, rather than the beauty he/she creates. The finished product. Please take this from me, even if only a momentary relief. Please take this from me, even if other valuable traits go with it.
The intense battle with myself is forever.
Before I open my mouth to breath a single breath
involving the intricacies of language, it’s clear that
my words are incorrect. They come from a place that very few
actually see, yet they stand condemned as they are birthed
from my lungs. Could any single being even retain all the
meaning, all the light, or lack-there-of, from my carefully
spun wording? Is it possible that visualization make these
words untrue regardless of content? Longing for inner
substance is a daily struggle; that longing to possess a
soul or even the qualities that embody it seems to be
the song of the day. Each whisper of a localized breeze
carries remnants of a certain yearning for a core that I can never
have. Something intangible can easily dictate the day-to
day-struggles of the loner.
She’s the kind of event that makes a semi-sane individual want to cloak ones self in a 7:1 darkness. With all the beauty in the world that has yet been captured, she still questions the mundane and the macabre. She’s a creative partner that incites violence and provocation. I’ve met her and I’ve known her. We used to venture outside of our shadows that followed three steps off the brilliant highlights. There used to be highlights; now she hides far from where the brilliantly honest light lies. She whispered: “Cozy in, close off and continue on your beaten path.”
I love you, too.
Yet again, drips and drops of my personal life roll into my commissioned work. Instead of being
some timeless classic where boy meets girl and he loses her, this story is one of resentment,
anger, and complete sense self-disgust. How does one deal with such an event? In this case,
I instructed the talent to nearly choke herself while holding a delicately beautiful face. It seemed
to be an appropriate visual display of my inner turmoil. Bottom line, I want to choke out the
memories that plague me, all while maintaining an appearance that is (on the face of it)
Drink that one down.
More and more, it seems like the best images that I capture tend to be the ones that come from a place of resentment. The objectification of the human body is something that I despise, yet I’m a direct contributor to this movement. I lose sleep on a regular basis, because of the ideas that I inadvertently project. Ana is a beautiful being, but so untouchable to me.
One moment we connect, and then it all dissipates. Being a gorgeous creature with creativity brimming out of her, she’s everything I want to be. I resent how beautiful she is and I hate how easy she is to work with. But, when we meet, we make art babies.
One day, I won’t hold myself to such delusional standards (and feel less like a piece of shit), but until then, “photography is my wife and art is my mistress”.
Every real photographer has some sort of trite, whining, bitchy, back-story that drives him/her to take photographs. God knows that I have my own twisted reasoning for doing what ever the hell it is, that I do. Though the inter-webs are flooded with motivational and inspiring self-stories to the brim, this is not one of those. It’s selfish. Hell, I’m selfish. Instead of “creating some beautiful piece of art”, I forced the pretty person/thing in front of my lens to be everything I want and hate, at the same time. To me, it’s a relief.
The arm reaching in from the left represents society and someone close to me. The hand is forcing, although slightly, the girl to look in a SPECIFIC direction. There is no choice to be made. Her face, however, is supposed to look how “resistance” feels. Pupils slightly un-centered. Fear and negligence all wrapped up in aesthetics. Are you playing a tiny violin yet?