December 14, 2011

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

The fourteenth was mine and Steele's 4 year anniversary.

I woke up alone in my own bed and got dressed in a red wool skirt. And when I got to school I felt like I had this little secret (but couldn't help busting it out and telling people throughout the day.) Four years is a long time. Four years, four years, four years. He surprised me with flowers, and on our break between classes we ran to pick up film.


This film is special and took a long time to get. I loaded a roll into my camera late in the summer and we had the idea to do a multiple exposure roll. I shoot the whole thing through of images of him, and then we rewound it being careful to leave a tail, and reloaded it and he shot the whole roll again of images of me. So these images are spanning a few months, it took a while to finish and finally process, and scanning it was one thing I wanted to do on the fourteenth. At school, where everything I do and make is for something, it feels like food to a starving stomach to make something for myself.


We took the bus downtown and roamed Powell's, my favorite place, and spent a while drawing silly things in my daily notebook. (We play a game where we both draw the same thing to compare the differences.) And went out to dinner, heavenly good food (I got breakfast for dinner, and he got a chicken pot pie.)


And then went home and curled up and were together. It's funny how those things, those quiet comfortable normal things, that you do everyday seemingly out of necessity become special sometimes. Like it is absolute necessary to hold hands when you're walking through the aisles of a bookstore, even though any other day you would do it without thinking.


I will give you something small from a piece of writing I did recently. It feels strange to be posting this, like I should guard it, so I won't give you the whole thing. I read it out to Steele two days before our anniversary while we were driving back to his house at night, crossing the river, and I cried. I feel like the moment of reading it is more important than what it said. That I could forget these words but never forget my throat feeling thick, the bars of the bridge passing, coming up upon an exit, Portland at night, and the way I had to pause to collect my breath before continuing onto the next paragraph.


I do not understand a love which does not yell. I cannot comprehend this easy light filled thing which you have given to me, do give me everyday.

Now I believe in us. I believe that it is better to have faith in this mysterious thing I do not understand. That there will never be a day I do not want to see your smile. That you will always pull me closer in the night.

But more deeply than that, I believe that you will not leave. And that I will not leave either.


(This last image was put together manually, they were both separate, over exposed and looked like they needed each other.)

December

Friday, December 2, 2011

It is December. Here I am.

The past few weeks, before Thanksgiving break, I had been getting so stressed out. About school. I love, absolutely loved, everything I was making and doing. But it was just so much, every day, waking up early and staying at school late and there never seemed to be any break. Just day in, and day out, and go go go and don't sleep, sleep five hours, wake up early, go to bed late, pay the bills, spend all day in the print shop, and all week printing photographs, and write, and get home every night with only enough time to crawl into a cold bed and wake up at 5:55 the next morning.


I want this month, these next few weeks until the end of term to be different. I have so many things to do. I have three big projects and one paper. And they are all due. And they are all important to me. And I have ideas for all of them that require lots of time and money and stress. And I just can't let it be like that or I will go insane. And it won't be worth it anymore. I will no longer be connected to these things. What's the point of making if I don't have the context of my life for it to be in?


I am excited for December. There are so many things I want to do and accomplish. My projects, of course, which are hard and scary sometimes. (My photography project this time around is going to deal really intimately with a big insecurity.) And also I love Christmas time. I feel like a kid for counting down the days, but what else am I? I want to leave time to go home early, and make christmas decorations, and spend time on people's gifts, and be happy. I want to do more art for me. I want to get back into just photographing. Not for anything, just to do it. Just because it's what I love and there's no reason not to do it. And I want to start a drawing, a new big drawing. I have been drawing a little in sketchbooks and things but haven't done anything large scale in a while.

So there's that.
I want to surround myself with comfort.

Thankgiving.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Later, in bed, Steele and I said 10 things we're thankful for. His: Me, video games, football, his friends, food, art, money, his house, his car.
Me: Him, Crrr, that I can see, pillows, tea, Larry the bus driver, my parents, Lance, heat, books.






Monday, November 14, 2011

I want to be. In a white room, alone, with no one else, and nothing else. I want to come out without jealousy. Without spite. Without regret. Without shame. I don't want any influences. I want to be, alone. I want to not compare myself to others. I want to come out not feeling like I missed anything. How could I miss anything if I was with myself and I am the most important person to myself because I am the only one who will know what it's like to be in my own head? I couldn't miss anything but my silly silly brain could trick itself into thinking I missed something. It could trick itself into thinking that there are a million people that are better than I am, a million ideas better than mine, a million amazing nights I never had and never would had and never could had. It could trick itself. I want to not try so hard to hold onto something. Unclench. Relax. Deep breath. Soak up any comfort I could get as long as it didn't soak too far into my skin, so far that it never came out and was always there, absurdly comfortable and eventually my brain would compare everything to that comfort and nothing would ever come close and I would be missing everything.

Cyanotypes

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Blue signifies sorrow. Not necessarily just sadness, but a deep aching rich feeling. The feeling that you have lost something, or that you are trying too hard to hold onto something. I chose to represent this with hands, for what expresses more sorrow? We clutch when we feel nervous, clench when we feel anxious, try to find something, anything, to hold onto. Or we let go and resign ourselves.









8 scanned cyanotypes, my most recent photography project. These are hand coated sheets of paper. Coated with Ware Cyanotype solutions, which is basically made up of some chemicals that have very scary names. They are 100% unique every time. It is not a forgiving process and these are by no means perfect. But I am pleased with them, mostly because I don't believe they would be as successful printed any other way but this. They are 5x5 inches in real life, and if you are around OCAC and want to see them, just say Hi.

From the pages of my notebook

Saturday, November 12, 2011

From my notebook, which has everything daily in it. Stuff that means a lot to me now and will be very confusing and unimportant in 5 years. I look back at my notebook from last year even and wonder what the hell I was doing. I love it though, couldn't survive without it. I use it for everything. (Just click on the photos to view them larger and get into my head.)






Night

Thursday, November 10, 2011

I'm sleepy. Exhausted.

But mostly I'm so happy for everything I'm doing right now. I am honestly excited about so many things. And so thankful for the view of the sunset at school.


Goodnight.

Still Afternoon

Sunday, November 6, 2011


We claimed a patch of grass as ours. We looked at each other and ran up through the alley back to my house on 7th street to grab armfuls of blankets. I took the steps of the black spiral staircase up to my brother’s room to grab a denim comforter with ruffles; it would be perfect to lie on.

Our arms full of fabric, these comforting things, we walked all the way back to our grass, our feet slapping the red gravel road.

You are asleep, and I am burrowing deeper into the covers. We are beneath a cloudless sky. Sometimes I look up and see blue and hold my hands over my eyes, form a small slit so I can better understand the color. It always looks different in isolation.

We are together but apart. I am curled with my back to yours. This afternoon isn’t mine, it’s ours, but I am alone contemplating. I contemplate with you beside me, and therefore you are contemplating with me.

I turn on my back, and whisper your name, “Crrr.” Not a question, but a statement. You respond anyway, a muffled sound of acknowledgement, and I am satisfied. I stretch out, make some noise, and imagine the grass under our blanket getting squished down.

A scoop of land surrounds me all sides by rising trees. I am in a bubble of history. I can still remember my mom spreading out a crinkled map of this town, a bird’s eye view. The numbered streets so out of place in the mountains. I loved tracing the ways I would walk to the bus stop. I swore I would take the longest route; I wanted to live in a city. I didn’t even know you then. I had a different best friend.

Now here we are, on our blanket, looking up at the sky wrapped in blankets I’ve had just as long as I’ve lived here. We’re on the alley, between 4th street and 5th.

Yesterday we ventured down to the river. There was a pebbly rock beneath my fingers. Water gulping and rushing around me. I pretended I was on the edge of a waterfall, above empty space. I told you this as you giggled and took pictures, the shutter clicking heavily in our still afternoon. I stood up and looked at my feet on the rock, jumped from one to another, making my way back to the bank of grass.

I sat myself in a swinging hammock chair as you balanced on a log by the river, dipped your feet into the cold water. I twisted myself up on the rope of the chair, then let myself go and the world spun. I was back in my own bubble. I focused on the tiny cotton threads and your voice. It didn’t matter what you said, only that you were speaking.

Afterwards we clambered back up the tiered path overgrown with clumps of grass and weeds. I held on to empty space and managed to stay upright. We walked slowly back, no need to rush, across the road, through the alley and back into the house. We were soaked with sun.

Maybe we are in a sphere and the only ground that exists in the entire world is the grass under our blanket. You are breathing, heavily, you’re asleep, remember? I wake you up, now we’re turned towards each other, I’ve grabbed my camera.

We like to pretend these moments happened in complete solitude, that it was just chance that a camera was pointed at us, happened to capture the exact moment our joy peaked. The truth is that I want so badly to remember every detail of this afternoon. I know I won’t be able to memorize it, so I’ll let the light do it for me.

The next day we walk up to the waterfall. Loose gravel roads lead us places I’ve already been to dozens of times, and we get off the road in the middle of an incline. Here is another rushing body of water. Colder than before. We lay out on another pebbly rock, slowly inching ourselves down to the water. Plunge our feet in and a swirling mass of gold-flecked mud blooms around us, turning the river opaque.

We are in a tiny collected bowl of river water. Here is the waterfall I was imagining myself above. Now I am below it, or nearly.

Childish fear grips our bodies, we are hesitant but over the course of another hot afternoon we creep our way under it. First our feet must go in. Next our legs, torsos and shoulders.

Then we are under, after much debate about who will go first and why. (You, I am less strong.) Water is pounding down. It is so shallow here, easy to climb up the big rocks and get behind the fall. We giggle, we are free. Our hands reach out to touch the stream of water, which is so solid and so white. I want to stay here forever.

I will myself to remember the details. Droplets hitting my bare skin, the echoing sound from being in a small chamber with a loud noise. I close my eyes; tilt my face towards the spray. Words are unnecessary, so complete is our joy.

We are really two tiny dots in the world. I know once I get back to the city and leave my quiet town I will have a moment where I crane my neck to see the windows of a building, and I’ll know that for every window there is a person. I will be put in my place. My life will once again be small. But right now I am the center of my own universe. Without anything to compare ourselves to, we are as large as the world around us. As important as the waterfall we’re under.

Reluctantly, we edge out from under the waterfall, you first this time so I can see how it’s done. And we’re back in our bowl, floating on our backs in a pool only two feet deep. The noise of the waterfall is in the background again. We are still together. I can say your name, and you can say mine. We will answer. We are here.

Nexus

Sometimes I forget that it was I who made these things. I who did this. It's easy to forget that, I think. I want feel fully everything I'm doing. Is that what everyone wants? Sometimes, maybe, the only way things are right is if I'm not trying to control them. And I will never escape my desire for chronology.

Two drawings I drew.

Saturday, November 5, 2011


Tumbling

My first experience with Tumblr was when a photograph I had taken was posted on a blog dedicated to images of kisses. I was proud, at the time it was an image I loved: Steele and I in a kiss on the Oregon coastline. I revisited the page often over the next few weeks, curious to see if anyone else would approve of it. And they did. I watched as the number of notes (favorites and reblogs) grew to 100 and continued growing. I was especially elated every time I saw that it was reblogged, which meant that it had been posted on another blog. Now this is put in perspective as I see content that has 2,000+ notes. But to me then, Tumblr seemed like a completely new world I had yet to discover.

I convince myself that I can use these people as inspiration, find their photographs, their websites, track them down and study them. Find out the secret quality they hide in their photographs. But when I click on a link, all it does, it takes me to another Tumblr. Another trove of lovely and enchanting images. They all start to blend together. I can’t remember if I have seen anything cool because everything seems cool.

I hate Tumblr. Once I get sucked into one of those perfect white layouts, completely barren except for pages and pages of beautiful images, it’s over. These things are supposed to inspire me. And they do, for the first few pages. Then slowly I can’t help but start to despair. I will never be as good as half the things I see. I won’t be able to capture light this way. I won’t be able to go out to these locations and shoot and come back and edit perfectly. I won’t gain an online following. No one will ever want to buy my prints. No one will want to “like” my Facebook fan page. No one will care about my meager attempts to capture the way I’m trapped in my bed like a moth.

A feeling starts to creep into my gut. A tiny bud of self-doubt. I’m not good enough for the internet. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

Tumblr is such a good resource. Tumblr is such a community. Tumblr is a blogging revolution. Tumblr. Tumble. I tumble. And tumble. And tumble. And fall. It’s a god-awful hour, the middle of the night, I am hunched over my computer. I am staring at this blue-white computer screen. All I’m doing is clicking the “next” button. Next page. Older entries. More images. The empty feeling in my gut has grown and now I have a pit in the bottom of my stomach. And the pit says, “You aren’t good enough.” This feeling tells me all sorts of things. That I have wasted time. I have wasted my time looking at photographs I can’t even track down the artist of. I have wasted the precious time in which I could have been outside taking my own photographs. I could have. I could have. I am a waste of space.

So I get out. Delete. And write a short Flickr entry about how Tumblr isn’t for me. I am swathed once again in my isolation. Self-doubt is still a part of my life. That empty feeing in my stomach still comes back and it still whispers my fears to me. I sometimes ignore it, sometimes give in to it. I know that self-doubt, and not Tumblr, is really what I hate. I try to break free of my cycle. Go outside. Look at the sky. And don’t visit any Tumblr’s. Maybe I’ll be okay.

My mind rambles

Friday, November 4, 2011

Do you ever have that feeling where you just know something is wrong. Something is off in your tummy, you feel bad for a reason, you know that you're sad, you're supposed to be sad. But you can't remember why. You think maybe it's not important because, obviously, you can't remember. And then you realize what you forgot. And your stomach shrinks. And you are still sad. And you deflate. There is no avoiding it. You just have to wait until you forget again.


I lost one follower. I don't know why this matters to me? Someone deleted their blog? Someone realized I don't post that many things, this isn't that riveting, this is just for me. I don't know why these things matter to me.

I want to start a 365 days of writing project. Not necessarily eloquent writing. Anything. Maybe it's one sentence or one word or one paragraph. Maybe it's just something about what I ate for breakfast. I want to remember things. I have a bad memory. That's why I photograph things, and why I write things.




So here is something from today:

I am in the passengers seat of Steele's car. We are driving home after having a few beers at a friends house. I am warm and I am a small little piece of a group. We come up over a hill and there is a blanket of fog on everything. Only the street lamps show through. And I feel full. I can sing out loud, I can watch the lights pass, I can kiss Steele twice on the mouth and slip into bed at 12:54 in the morning.

Color fields

Saturday, October 29, 2011


(Grounded)
(Artifact)
(Distance)
(Heritage)
(Friendship)

Contact

Monday, October 24, 2011

Contact
the act or state of touching; a touching or meeting, as of two things or people.





(These are printed 30" x 22" If you are at OCAC, go see them in person. They're hanging in the photography hallway.)

Storm Tharp, and worries.

I am here. Alive and doing projects and things and trying to be a better person with a happier and cleaner life. And failing, sometimes, and convincing myself that these failures aren't failures, just little steps in the right directions. (Which they are, maybe.)

I went to an artist lecture today, Storm Tharp, and it was so good. He spoke so honestly about success not necessarily making you feel 100% good. That you are suddenly filled with doubts and worries and they don't go away and you can never get back to an easy place. I haven't been graced with any great success, yet. But I do notice that whenever I reach some level I've wanted to reach, my standards suddenly go up and I'm back thinking I'm not good enough or I'm not deep enough, I'm not talented enough.

It was nice to hear an artist talk about that for once, instead of just showing slides of work and talking about the formal elements. I really felt like I got to know a tiny bit of him by the end of that, and even if it was fleeting or manufactured, it definitely influenced me.

Something someone wrote to me once

Saturday, October 15, 2011

I've done nothing but let people down my entire life, and the same thing has happened with you. Not once, but twice. I have done nothing but make your life miserable and turn your entire world upside down and on its head. I have not only failed myself, my beliefs, my morals, and everything that I truly stand for inside, I have failed you. I've taken something from you that you will never be able to get back for the second time now. I have pulled the rug out from underneath your feet and set your heart on fire, given you hope in a something that seemed so strong, and shattered it. All I have to say for myself is that I am the pit of the worst people on the planet. I've ruined something with a person who meant so much to me. I've lost one more person that I would take a bullet for and I don't know how to stop. I'm an animal, and I have nowhere to go but up.

















__________________________
I don't want to forget it.

White Lance

Saturday, October 1, 2011


Mamiya C330 with Kodak Portra 400


The assignment was White. Lance was a green stuffed alligator Steele made for me 2 years ago. I sleep with him every night and since his creation have derived great comfort from him. How would my experience with this object change if I were to remove the color?

I made a new Lance, a white Lance (Lance W.) and this is the result.

Small things

Thursday, September 29, 2011

I just got three rolls of summertime 35mm film back from processing. I just picked out the photos which stuck out to me on first glance for this post, so there will be more to come. I love them (and love film) because these are moments I have strong memories of, but had forgotten, and the second I pulled the prints out they came rushing back to me. This is why I shoot film. To remember.







It's okay to have a small and ordinary life

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

If that's what you want. I need to tell myself this five times a day.

Heavy head

Tuesday, September 27, 2011


This was such a delirious hike. I've been really tired and heavy headed lately and hiking up this trail was just like walking through some weird place that I couldn't see or touch. I felt like I wasn't looking at anything. Then we got to this waterfall, and Ali and Nick jumped off the waterfall into the deep pool below. I stayed with Steele but waded out into this shallower pool upstream of the waterfall. And all the sudden I was in this huge pool of ice cold water looking up at the sky. It felt like a jolt to my brain. When the water was above my lungs I couldn't take in a full breath but somehow it made me feel more present. So I stood it. I love being in water. I hate my heavy head. I need more ice water in my life.

A white box and a typewriter

This moment.

Sitting at my desk. The last ray of sunlight is glinting right into my glasses and shining on my nose. My legs are stretched out resting on the end of my bed and cars are roaring past outside, a constant ebb and flow. I am so full of doubts and dreams and common thoughts. Why is writing on the computer so much harder than writing on my typewriter? Because I can just go back and erase. The computer enables my self-doubt. My typewriter allows me to move past it and forget about what I've just written and move onto the next sentence.

I love the feel of the click of the keys. The way I can't focus on anything else but the letter I'm about to type next. I love the way the history shows up with all the little x's I put through word I don't want or place I messed up. I can't hide my mistakes. I can't be someone I'm not. I don't always make sense and something beautiful comes out of it sometimes and something tender or personal or something I won't show anyone. Or something I want to show everyone. I pile up all these papers I've typed on and I imagine my children or grandchildren sifting through them and knowing I was a real person, had real fears and doubts and cursed and had sex and cried. That I loved life and was ignorant and young and didn't know what to do with myself and was sick with pain, sick with doubt, but I found my way, somehow.

How can these expensive backlit keys capture all of that?

Also,

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Something really wonderful happened to me a few days ago and I am hesitating to write about it incase I mess up how much it meant.



I'll leave that.









----

I'll try really hard not to fuck up my life.

I have been aimless for a moment that is longer than brief. When does this aimlessness deserve my attention? When do I sit down and say sternly to myself "Listen, this is what you have to do." When do I think. When do I find myself?

I am just a little girl dressing up in clothes and walking around this apartment as if I pay for it myself. I am scared. Why the fuck do I think I can answer any of my own questions?



















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Shoreline

Monday, September 19, 2011

These are from a roll shot with my Mamiya C330, on a town by the shore in northern Washington.