Testimony:

i don't miss you anymore

(To Be) Blindness: A Photo Story - Part 1

Wave of Revelation:


We have our mouths open- even the horse- as if to taste the whirlwind happening around us. Lights are darting in motion, colours flying- all so warmly vibrant despite being old hues of a bygone era (a comforting wash of gold remains, characteristic of Kodak film). There... there is my former self, a little girl on the horse who is out of focus, blurred, not centered (but heading there from the left)- her appearance is more like an echo of an image than a static apparition. The joyous expression she has, racing toward adventure wherever it goes (infinite or circular, she doesn't seem to be picky), makes her particular (and slight) evasiveness more exuberant, and thus establishes her as the main subject of the photograph.

Scanning the picture again, I look for things that I have missed over the years. I notice people residing in the right corner, pulling me toward a different time by their outdated outfits. I don't dwell too long and again forget about their presence. Then I see there is a man standing behind the little girl (my former self), barely noticeable (you'd have to look twice). His head peeks out between the horse and the pole, and though he is "behind the scene" so to speak, he is still part of the adventure. The huge grin underneath the bristle-like mustache (you cannot see the coarseness, but I know it is there) radiates- and the man's presence ensures that my former self will not fall. He supports me like iron, stronger than the metal pole that holds the horse- allowing the adventure to continue. That man there is my father and in this image, we are transfixed- to each other, onto the carousel platform, and to this photograph.

Nevertheless, the pronounced movement captured in our photograph embodies anticipation and somehow exceeds our immobility as a still picture. My father and I (as well as the horse, the other people) will eventually move out of the frame but the action has not stopped yet, nor will it until the photograph is destroyed or lost. And though this photograph does not technically go on to the next movement, does not completely continue on, something else does- something I have yet to understand.


Sight as Revelation:


Pulled out from time and stamped onto a roll of film, the image of my father and I on the carousel now exists as a intermediary between past and present. The future is questionable, as the life of the photograph is unstable and destined to be short-lived. The chemicals that once brought the image into being (like the ignition of an engine) will slowly eat away at the picture over time (like our own aging bodies, the betrayal of cells; the engine, corroded by its own fuel). The fate of the photograph, meant to be partially immortal (memorabilia to at least outlast human memory), will ultimately lead to a death. Now that digital has been replacing film cameras, snapshots like this one shall either perish or be transferred onto a computer, diminished from its physical state. This is how the presence of photography will end, evaporating into a semi-existence of pixels and fragments. The loss of film does not break my heart so much as the fact that I may never work in a darkroom again- a place I call a source of revelation.

The carousel picture was most likely processed commercially with not much technical difficulty or artistic frustration (looping film into an automatic processor, etc). But I want to feel that the picture is more unique than its origins, especially because of the way the photograph feels in my hands. The picture is small, smaller than the size of a standard 8x10 snapshot and holding something so minute, so modest- it's like I'm holding a miracle... a delicate miracle that somehow appears on glossy emulsion paper. This divine-like aura makes the image more of a novelty, a relic; the remnants of a time and a good feeling now gone still lingers, still exists for the meantime- though it shouldn't.

Wanting to believe that this photograph is special, I would like to imagine that the carousel photo was made in a similar way I print pictures- with absolute care and wonder. Yet within the excitement of artistic creation, I find that I also have an unusual amount of fear when producing photographs. As a photographer working in a traditional darkroom, I am always anticipating fear and awe at the same time (a kind of sublimity). The first wave of anticipation is strong- fear not just of ruining the photograph but of the dark. Unlike black and white printing, where the photographer can work under a red light, colour printing must be done in complete darkness because of the emulsion (photo paper) used- its high sensitivity cannot be allowed any light other than the brief moment when the enlarger quickly flashes whatever image (and any photographer, working in darkness, appreciates long exposures for this reason). The photographer working with colour must blindly stumble around, trying to make sense of equipment and space in the darkroom. Difficult to let go of the need for light, I have always had a fear of the dark (and now you'll ask me why I love the darkroom so much, retaining such a childish fright), but I find myself in the dark eventually. After placings the print into the processor, I anxiously await for my image to come out of darkness (and fear) and into light, the photograph thus becoming a product of revelation- I see the image, I finally discover what was hidden from me in the dark.

Sight is a conduit of revelation and this traditional association still resides in our society, our spirituality, and our eagerness for discovery and creativity. We enter the process of revelation when the act of seeing transcends physicality (coming forth from the body, flesh, metaphorical darkness) in order to truly see light (a brilliance unseen by physical eyes, only seen by the mind, shaped into enlightenment, epiphany). If sight leads us to revelation, the dark and our blindness (whether temporary or permanent, physical or mental) must be the conductor of seeing- catalyzing the search for enlightenment.

Photography (of course) circles around (the art of) seeing, but also significant is the action of not seeing and not knowing. Therefore photography comes out of blindness and into sight- into being, into realization, and into recognition. The carousel photograph came from the same process, carried by the camera, processed in the dark, printed in the light, and now laying in my hands, is seen.

My fear then is not truly of the dark, but this: what will I find in this image, what will I see, what meaning is portrayed (if any), and what will the image reveal?

let's start over:

An Elaboration:

How would you describe your work?

Maybe this is a contradiction (being a photographer, I'm supposed to have some sort of vision) but to be honest: I'm blind (can't see the bigger picture), I'm afraid (don't want to see the bigger picture), I'm nervous (won't accept the bigger picture) about living, truly living. Whatever that entails (living, breathing, believing), I'm probably not doing it right, and this has caused a life-long anxiety to continuously move around and find others to collide with. And by colliding, sometimes it is love (mostly it is not) and it always seems like we travel in the same direction- hitting this great and overpowering wall of (failure and) disbelief. Friends and lovers blend together and I cannot differentiate who my enemies or meaningless contacts are- somehow we are all the same and yet our inability to come together is my greatest disappointment.

Though I'd like to think I'm mostly successful in my life (as well as with others), my art circulates around this notion that we can never meet each other and in that we have failed in the grand scheme of things. A man whose picture I took, with his chest puffed up and his mouth closed tightly (the muscles bulged, ready to give out from the tension), carried out his insecurities on camera and I loved it. Standing stiffly and naked with a mask on, he was afraid to truly pose without flexing his muscles. The masculine, overtly sexual tension was so profuse in the air, it felt like I was swimming through time (past loves, other naked bodies) rather than conducting a photo shoot. In the same room, his stripper ex-girlfriend (who gave him a ride to my apartment) approached him and proceeded to go down on him while I took pictures. The act was shocking but so tender, I left the room in my shy naivete so that they could temporarily be together once more.

The ex-girlfriend told me her reasoning for the blow job was to make great art (he had great male genitalia) and I knew I could never properly present their moment. Instead, I wanted to capture the debris of their contact- the aftermath- his slow and eventual sexual upheaval and then decline- the blood flow trying to be constant- my presence and hers the trigger of arousal- and at the same time, his greatest disappointment. I didn't want her in the picture and yet I wanted her to be there at the same time- forcing him to constantly grow and die.

After the shoot, she wouldn't hold his hand as they left my home. What a curious thing to do, considering the misalignment of contact. I didn't understand his endless wanting, her immediate love and then rejection, or my desire to interpret their states of being.


You mentioned something about your insecurities; is this a main focus in your work?

My favourite thing in the world is getting lost in the city these days. Instead of sitting in traffic on the 110, I get off on Adams Blvd (or street, I can't remember) and navigate my way from the Staples center to Los Feliz. Usually it is 6 or 7 by the time I even get a chance to take this route, and the sun is the most weak in the city during this time. Buildings seem to topple (or at least their shadows do) and the sun barely makes its way in-between these giants. People walk through their own SQUALOR- trash, the budding unhappiness of business as usual (full bloom at the end of the day), the homeless (somehow a result of everyone's failure), and the chrysalis of apathy.

I am a twenty three year old woman (girl seems more appropriate) who currently lives in the city of Los Angeles and constantly tries to make up for her complete shyness (and why be shy in Hollywood! let's get famous and fuck everyone's brain out!). Perhaps it is because I fear the length of my desire- to crawl into someone else's skin, tell stories, build cities, live in synchronized time (living or dead). Sometimes my shyness is not shyness at all but a feeling that stems from my anxiety to escape from someone (entirely myself and entirely myself in relation to a YOU).

The medium of photography (especially my self portraits) then is my only way to document my own anxieties. For some reason I am unable to express myself to others (often unable to talk freely) and so I project different versions of my self to study that greatly feared interior of mine (where's my transcript!). Some versions are better than others, some are true of me, some are complete lies. I think most of my self portraits are lies especially because I usually OBJECTIFY myself. Again, another contradiction is the way that I have learned to present myself on film- a shy, sometimes vulnerable girl who poses in sexually charged images and pretends to take control of her body. I try not to take these pictures anymore, try to give up on finding a physical mediator (that person on the other end), try to find my middle ground in other ways. You just can't be an object- to yourself, to anyone. How was I ever living before?

I guess getting lost in the city has led me to discover a new type of anatomy within myself. All the while, running through streets, enjoying the pollution of other people, from the beaches of the Santa Monica area, to the heart of downtown, and then the outer reaches of Griffith Park, I am getting more comfortable in being myself. My favourite picture right now is of two Buddhist monks at the observatory. The colours drip from their orange and yellow robes and leak out like a contusion in the cold April weather atop the city. It is a polaroid and though the picture frame is quite small, the image's modesty makes the vibrant colours worthwhile. The clouds collect a little bit of colour and the buildings warm to the monks like being illuminated by brushfire. This picture makes me feel a little less SELFISH.


Who/what is your main source of your inspiration?

Mostly it starts off with a string of bad luck.

And though after a string of bad luck, you'd expect little is left of you- exhausted from throwing yourself all over the place- I am the exact opposite, ready to take on challenges with a manic attitude. I am opposed to luck in the first place and I often seek retaliation anyway (does that make any sense?). Recently, my bad luck (and inevitable inspiration) has started with this: an afternoon after a bad temp assignment led me to seek refuge at nearby Redondo Beach. Not knowing the area (and wanting to disturb any and all bad feelings with a good, hearty adventure), I somehow found water and sand. Unfortunately when I arrived, man decided to enforce parking meters on every street and having my luck, there were no quarters to be found. I started to sweat (here in the center of summer, that's when this all occurred), wanting to feel the ocean air. Yet a woman who, with a van full of kids, tapped on my window had slightly changed the direction of my bad luck by giving me her parking space- one full hour to enjoy myself.

Boldly alone (boldly distressed, tired, sad) on a Friday evening, I went out on the beach. Walking down to the water (and wanting to forget about everything), I tossed my shoes aside and prepared all the senses for an impending interaction. Firstly affected is smell- the sea, strongly sour and salty. Then sight and sound is hit with water- calm, but also wild, voluptuous blue and violent green. After touch, everything else perceived prior becomes secondary as you feel it all- the grit of sand, the weary muscles of your legs trying to keep you from sinking, and the rich abundance of water overwhelming your skin- cold, so cold it's delicious- deliriously delicious.

I will always an affair with the ocean and I guess it is the symbolic conductor of my work. The churning of the tides always seems to rupture all of the senses, knocking you down, sometimes wanting to drag you out and drown you, sometimes letting you keep afloat- and that is what I set out to do (maybe not the literal drowning part, but you get it). Though I cannot truly activate the senses physically, I can try to tell you a story through a photograph, hope for the best, and get a reaction out of you (flood you, flood your senses with something deliriously delicious).

You I Have No Distance From

"I can't remember what it was like before I met you. Was I always like this? I remember myself lost. I know that for sure. Wandering. Moving from one wild woman to the next. Staying, sometimes, just long enough to understand that their bewilderment was more pronounced than mine. At least that's the way they put it across. But I can't remember being this nervous before; this frazzled. I'd watch them from a distance: taking stoned sponge baths in their sinks; shaving black hash balls with razor blades; moving like slow-motion queens. Then they'd change into backyard girls from long ago, giggling and tucking their long legs up under themselves: the way they'd plunk down on their soft heels and then toss their hair like horses switch their tails.

But you I have no distance from. Every move you make feels like I'm traveling in your skin; every glance you take out the window, as though you were completely alone and dreaming in some other time. It does no good to wave my arms. Now everything's reversed."

Sam Shepard, You I Have No Distance From

I keep losing myself:

hopeless, these things i show you

degenerate:

your indifference shapes me
haunts my neighbourhood streets
i walk through
the expanding hollowness
now hoovering on
every lawn.

i wade in
your indifference
a great volume filling houses,
penetrating through windows-
nobody's home anymore
nobody's able to stay
in the rocking ocean
of your negligence-
your apathy corrodes me-
i'm the only one
who welcomes
your rough waters anyway.

home now,
there's still no you here,
your absence rises
in my room-
i look outside
and see
only your unkindness
now built into the city-
everywhere lights beam back
like carrying a code, a message
as if to tell me
what i've already known,
you won't be coming,
you won't change your mind
and take back
the love
you don't feel.

Last Night:

We went to the Edison downtown and had a blast. There was a tiny lady in a green fairy outfit carting vials of absinthe around the bar. Of course I made a purchase (and I totally want her job now, I think I would do quite well as a fairy).





Via Sam's camera.


I have only tried being social again lately and it was really nice to be around the people that love me the most. After the bar, we came back to my apartment where I made everyone bruschetta and pesto pasta along with my raspberry red wine lemonade. Everyone played Lego Indiana Jones on Xbox until they passed out or went home. Now I am recovering from such a wonderful night and uploading pictures...

Untitled:

last night i dreamt
that you weren't dead--
familiar were the footsteps
sombrous as they waded through carpet,
and hearing
the sound
as you passed the stairway
and to my door
left me shocked,
electrified,
bewitched--

you weren't dead,
a dream it was to see
your face, milky-eyed
by the light
of an unforgiving moon--
instead of getting up,
rushing over to you,
to wash your feet with my hair,
give you a daughter's kiss,
to hold you til you dissipate again
to say any last words at all--

i pretended to be asleep.

And I feel like we've never been ourselves around each other:

.

My response to yours:

The sun has always been a painfully brilliant and divine object, a giver of life though it can blind, burn, and refuse to show its face when it desires. Despite these minor shortcomings, we still adore the sun, love its heat, its light- or we used to. I find that this generation has become desensitized to the heart of our existence, the core of life. We say we care and we don't, we don't see. We no longer see the sun as divine or brilliant or even cruel. The sun has been marketed, its mythology forgotten, reduced to a singular and regular place in society. So now we go around in circles and we close our eyes, distant even from each other, and it is no longer the sun that forgets to love.