Down Down Under the Earth

In the process of remodeling my website, I sorted through some archives. I've been thinking of Athens lately, maybe feeling too fixed in the life I have here in Chicago, which in turn makes me feel a little old and a little sad. I've been graduated for three years this week, which is totally mind-blowing in the way that it feels like so much longer.

My grandma is moving out of her house this weekend -- the house where she lived for 45 years. My dad grew up there, and because my parents were either both working or just generally unavailable and ill-equipped most of the time, I grew up there, too. And without me even getting to say goodbye in person, it's all gone, and not on happy terms. Growing up for me has meant gradually witnessing all the fixtures of my childhood slipping away into the deep and dark distance where I can't get to them. The bank foreclosed on my childhood home right after I graduated high school, and for four years of college I returned to my hometown and slept in a big, cold house that never needed to be home. Right after college my parents were forced to move again. I haven't been back to my hometown many times since. There's no place for my things -- no bedroom and no bed for a bedroom, even. Just random and lost relics of my youth, shoved in crates and boxes and stacked on the front porch.

It seems like we're always trying to go back to the places we've been. It's important to feel like the places are still intact, patiently waiting for us when we're ready to confront them. Maybe we're looking for comfort or resolution. Maybe we always feel estranged from the love we had and the time we let waste away feeling like we had all the time we needed. Or maybe we're always running away to start over and stake our claim on a life that never feels any different.

Autumn in Athens, 2009

Paying homage for no reason in particular.

A Matter of Perspective

I am learning to live without desire. This brings me to the doorway of uncharted territory. They say the only unexplored area left on earth is the 140 million square miles of the ocean floor. All things considered, I find this hard to believe.

Most of what we think is essential to our survival has been blown out of proportion. I used to think I would die if I couldn't dance. I have finally agreed to stop wanting what I can't have. Everywhere I go, the earth seems to be tilting away from me. If the sun were the size of a basketball, then the earth would be the head of a pin.

I am learning to live with the paradox that the horizon, when I finally get there, is not likely to be at all the way I pictured it.

There must be more to life than love. There must be worse things than being alone. Perhaps the trick is to remember that even the angles and shadows of a small empty room must operate according to the protocol of perspective. Examine the absolute inertia of corners where all three right angles must converge.

From my kitchen window I can see brick houses, yellow tulips, my neighbor's pink flamingo, and a blue car traveling north. I can even see the back of an apartment building three blocks over. I can see a small brown bird in a big green tree. I can see those many electrified wires by which we are all connected to each other and to the rest of the world. But I cannot catch even a glimpse of the horizon from here.

- Diane Schoemperlen

Emily

(archived photo)

Abby

(archived photo)

Where Was I

"Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen."
- Mark Twain

There's the kitchen. I spent the last year falling in and out of love with the water stained table, the warped linoleum tiles, the cobwebs in the corners, the rows of empty wine bottles, the rumbly washing machine, and the angsty faucet, screaming like a newborn. For most of twenty-two, I entertained guests with fried egg sandwiches and cups of coffee. Plates of re-heated spaghetti and pieces of cold pizza and stir fry over brown rice and homemade mashed potatoes and pools of melting ice cream and wheat toast with butter and tortilla chips and salsa and hot tea with milk and sugar and beer from the back of the fridge. Thanksgiving dinner, pumpkin guts, candy canes, birthday cake, wrapping paper, sappy cards, soggy Kleenex, junk from the bottom of my purse, junk from the bottom of my heart. Breakfast in silence. I look down into my cereal bowl, tears splashing into my Raisin Bran. Dinner with laughter and happily cramping bellies after drowsy days of snow. Drunk and nauseous, whining incoherently for my bed, for a glass of water, for a hug. Grocery lists and sticky notes and Oprah Magazine and Victoria's Secret catalogues and utility bills that I want to shred apart with my teeth. In February, I hated the plastic coating disallowing me a clear view of the outside world. In June, I sat and watched the early morning sun pour in through the glass, leaking all over the floor. I wrote a letter that I never sent. I took out the trash in contempt. I overloaded the dishwasher. I put my face down on the table, my cheek cool against the smooth wood, and listened for the ocean waves to sweep us up and away. I held your hand and told you it would be alright; and it was -- and it is, but it isn't the same.

Waiting for the Night

I'm waiting for the night to fall
I know that it will save us all
When everything's dark
Keeps us from the stark
Reality

I'm waiting for the night to fall
When everything is bearable
And there in the still
All that you feel
Is tranquillity

There is a sound in the calm
Someone is coming to harm
I press my hands to my ears
It's easier here just to forget fear

And when I squinted
The world seemed rose-tinted
And angels appeared to descend
To my surprise
With half-closed eyes
Things looked even better
Than when they were open
- Depeche Mode

(archived photo)

With the inspiration of this song and a growing collection of dim little frames that are both old and new, I created a new section of photographs on my website that I hope to populate indefinitely. For now, forgive its sparseness, and listen to some Depeche Mode circa 1990-1997 to get you good and moody.

Bitter vs. Sweet

I have seen the valley, and I've swam in it. It is dark and beautiful at the same time. But even the lowest valleys can, with strength, be climbed up and out of. I haven't seen the peak yet, but it's only made possible by confronting what's difficult, by embracing what's painful, and by letting go, and free falling all the way to the scary bottom.

This is the last photo I took in Athens yesterday evening before driving away and blowing out my speakers to Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody." Carrie and I kept this cake around -- this hunk of sweetness -- and we couldn't dream of saying goodbye, even when it was literally the very last item in our house. It took so much time to make! And it was so beautiful! Oh, the effort and the splendor of it. We took photos, threw it in the trash can, placed our keys in the kitchen, and walked away with a laugh, little trickles running down our faces.

Back to the Old House

When you cycled by
Here began all my dreams
The saddest thing I've ever seen
And you never knew
How much I really liked you
Because I never even told you
Oh, but I meant to

Are you still there?
Or have you moved away?
Or have you moved away?

I would love to go
Back to the old house
But I never will
- The Smiths

What It Feels Like for a Girl

In my sorting through some forgotten frames from this past year, I've come across so many of remarkable women I've photographed. And in sifting through the out-takes of my crying project, and revisiting the experiences behind these photos, a clear theme emerges. I post these two photographs of Emily with a distinct message in mind.

In my four years of college, I perfected the art of female bonding/commiserating. I always ran with the boys, so to speak, until I ventured off to higher education and met some of the most impressive women of my life. Sadly, though, here is what I've deduced. For me, and for many beautiful, intelligent women I've known, the following formula holds true: validation from men in romantic and/or career ventures + self-assurance regarding physical appearance and corresponding pleasant personality attributes + ability to hold back difficult emotions + pressure to give 100% to others and willingly accept 50% back because that's good enough = self-worth. That might not be the hitting the nail exactly on the head, but I think it comes pretty fucking close.

This isn't a a post intended to debase the male race. I love males -- in fact, I need them oftentimes -- to be strong when I can't, to be nurturing when I can't, to be sensical when I won't, and to be companions and fathers and life-long friends. I have been close to men who have let me in, who have knocked down their walls, who have shown their vulnerabilities, and who have leveled with me as an equal, unafraid of how incredibility frightening that can be. But, I have really struggled to find a place of comfort and peace as a young woman, especially as a aspiring photographer/artist/communicator, especially as a credible, valuable human being... I suppose this is not in direct relation to males, but more so to society's expectations at large. I have felt silenced. I have felt incapable. Knowing so many other women who all feel the same is not only sad, but extremely frustrating.

I just want to shake you and tell you that you are worth loving! And I am certain that others have felt the same urge with me. Go right ahead. I need shaken.

Why do we measure ourselves based on the expectations of others? Why do we feel like we must always be perfect, and put-together, and 100% stable? I am not any of these things. I need to fall apart, from time to time, sometimes for days at a time, and I am entitled to respect and love without a perfect presentation. I am entitled to my cellulite. I am entitled to my tears. I just want to be enough for myself, and dammit if that isn't the struggle of a lifetime.

And this is my anthem to every woman I have ever loved and known who has felt inadequate, unloved, and afraid. Wear your swimming suits without fear. Know your boundaries in the midst of pain and abuse. Celebrate your talent -- don't compare it. Stop, for one moment, and tell yourself -- really believe -- that you are wonderful.

If you promise you'll work harder to be kind to yourself, I will work harder too.

Sympathies I'm Ready to Return

There is clarity in an organized landscape. There is a hum in the breeze... and a comfort in what we just don't understand.

"What's too far?" said he. "Where you are," said she.

(words by photographer Rodney Smith)

You see, to be a photographer requires an openness and an ability to look deep into someone’s eyes, to regard them with care and affection, and to ultimately fall madly in love with them. There is some discrimination to this, but as I usually choose my subjects, for the most part, it is uncontrollable.

It begins with attraction, and ends with an intimate knowledge of their soul. It involves letting them speak to me, watching carefully, and finding their specialness.

With men, this seems not to be a problem. They quickly become like good friends and confidants. We are able to laugh together, and enjoy each other’s company, but for women (for me), this is a different matter.

I find myself pulled in, looking ever more closely, finding their strength, their delicacy, and their beauty. If they are willing to return the gaze, the game is afoot.

In order to succeed, I must slowly disrobe my emotions. I must slowly unveil my feelings, and for the portrait to be successful, she must be willing to do the same. There is a far greater intimacy exposed, although not necessarily in the touch. There is a connection, an openness, an ability to reveal both of ourselves completely, with all our strengths and vulnerabilities.

This is a very difficult thing to do, both for me, and for her. It is what distinguishes greatness from mediocrity. How far you are willing to emotionally travel is as important as your talent.

To succeed, we must fall in love, take the pictures, and then slowly take deep breaths, realizing who we are, and walk slowly away from the edge.

What We Miss

I wake up, face glazed over with sweat. The air hangs heavy and the box fan hums in the windowsill. My spare pillows are scattered on the floor; I reside on the left side of the mattress, a heap of blankets to the right, thrown off my scrawny bones. In the midst of the nightmare, everything goes flying. It could've been a beautiful night. We could have had dinner on the porch. We could've talked about our dreams. We could've sat with each other after the storm, after the screen door slammed shut and the crickets came to sing their songs. I would've told you that I'm sorry for burning the potatoes. I'm sorry for all of my ridiculous expectations.

Sometimes, I cannot believe where I am. Each time the golden hour comes, I think of a beautiful face, soaking up the rays. I think of an evening that could've been ours to watch the sun go down and talk until it came back up. But I've got an empty house.

Some trickles of expired daylight remind us of everything we've missed while sitting on our hands.

The Storm Is Coming

Take me, take me back to your bed
I love you so much that it hurts my head
Say, "I don't mind you under my skin
I'll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in"
Well when we were made we were set apart
But life is a test and I get bad marks
Now some saint got the job of writing down my sins
The storm is coming, the storm is coming in
- Brand New

Where We Sleep

I guess it becomes less and less important where we sleep if we are used to sleeping wherever, whenever, with whomever. As a sufferer of chronic nightmares, I have always feared the darkness that seems to swallow me whole. To me, where we sleep makes all the difference.

In five weeks, I do not know where I will be. I don't know what kind of accommodations I will have. I won't have this house anymore, or this bed. I am afraid to fall asleep with the same insecurity that has plagued me before, and I am afraid of what the morning brings. To have this uncertain relationship with sleep deeply complicates my daily life. No doubt the uncertainty in general makes me want to hide my head under the covers for an eternity.

It is no surprise that each day I step further into adulthood, I miss my grandma tucking me in to bed, singing me Bible songs, and I miss the goodbye kiss in the morning from my dad before he left for work, and I miss the bed across the room that was my sister's where I would retreat in the midst of a nightmare. Wherever I will be in a few week's time, I hope the arms of sleep are kind, forgiving, and comforting. I could really use a good night's rest.

Because

The world is round.

"There is a crack, a crack in everything..."

"That's how the light gets in." - Leonard Cohen

Something to remember when we fall down the mountain and kiss the dirt, to quote another favorite song of mine.

It is the beginning of my last quarter of college. No doubt I will be despondent, confused, angry, sleepy, and obnoxiously achy during particular days in the next ten weeks... most of the time, I will be in need of helpful reminders because I am a slave to reassurance. Despite my fears of growing up, I believe that something extraordinary is possible. I have been truly blessed. It isn't everyday that we are able to see the world with new eyes... new inspiration... through the lens of someone we love. Even in troubled times, I will keep looking for the light.

Last Week

It's Been a Long Cold Lonely Winter

Go Outside