◣
(Source: girlrose, via thematthewhealy)
Old woman: “I-”
Woman [offscreen]: “No!”
Old woman: “Yeah! And he goes to me, uh, “Oh, this is what makes woman scream.” “Scream? Where the hell’s your dick at?””
Woman [offscreen]: “It was not that small!”
Old woman: “I swear to God!”
(via ciampi12)
I’ve never been in love with someone who loved me back. I imagine if I were to fall in love, these would photos showcase how my lover viewed me through their lens. This was such a deeply vulnerable and personal exploration, and it was tough to present this to my class.
The title works two fold: literally in the sense that my lover had taken the photos, and figuratively, as if my heart belonged to my lover.
My Photo Communication final this semester encouraged us to work toward a goal, whether it be a thesis or a personal essay or an execution of an already-formed idea. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, and even now, the project isn’t finished.
For every other critique, the artist opened with a statement, but for this, my teacher asked the class what they thought first. This made everything perfect because the first person to say something remarked how it looked like a significant other had taken the photos. Bingo. My goal was reached.
When I printed and hung these photos for critique, I had to be brave. Not only was I bearing my body for twenty students and countless passers by, but I was letting them in on a confession and an insecurity. I gave my story and the room turned silent. Immediately the background noise somehow disappeared. The energy shifted and I could feel my jaw shaking. I looked down at my hands to find I was pinching myself hard. To my relief, I was answered with praise.
Someone in class remarked that this must’ve been really sad for me. He was right. To stand behind my camera and tripod and put on a face as an actor who had never experienced moments like these–only in movies and in books–was heartbreaking. Setting a place at dinner for two, only to be honored by one, was even more painful.
Yet the beauty came in the form of therapy. With art, there is a release. And I never expect what can come from it, but as a multitude of loathsome emotions arose in my unrequited love project, even more rushed in to comfort myself. It’s not all bad, and it ended well. It’s my story that I want everybody to gain something from. And I look forward to sharing more and more as I work toward a conclusion, if that ever exists.
:,)
