Over the last few months, I’ve thought a lot about what should remain public and private; not strictly in the preachy internet sense, but in what we share with other people. There are times when that line of communication feels impossible–like when I try to recommend a piece of work that I love to someone and it’s not met with the same fervor on their end, but all I really want is to be on the same page, to have experienced the same thing. This particular brand of desperation really ought to have a name.
I like to think that there is a kind of safety in whispering, in keeping my own secrets. There are all of these inexplicable feelings that I can’t even imagine describing to another person and slowly, I’ve started to treasure not having to dilute or make my language palatable for someone else. What’s important is that I understand. I know the comfort of fastening my seatbelt in the backseat of my mom’s car where the only way we can make eye contact is through the rearview mirror; of not knowing what the right and wrong places are to look for importance until it’s too late; of finding myself telling my friends that I really like living in the suburbs in the summer, only to get asked why and not wanting to fully explain.
This photo series stemmed from wanting to re-examine past events and archive all the dialogue that I had with myself but never jotted down.
A line from my sketchbook and a self portrait that I took in my high school bathroom, that I recently discovered in my files. I remember knowing I would never step foot in that bathroom again even though I smiled at the teachers when they said, “come back and visit!”
Ella and Callie from the last time we all hung out together.
The words GOODBYE, which I wrote in a booklet two years ago, and a scan of an old button my mom saved in her sewing box.
The chandelier of a stranger who hosted a BBQ that my family attended in the summer. I still had to call them Auntie and Uncle.
A photo of Jake from when we walked 20 blocks downtown during the middle of the night and ate tacos sitting outside. We talked about the films we had just finished laboring over that semester and there was an unspoken understanding that–while we were happy to be in each other’s presence–as soon as we said our temporary goodbyes we would each go back to thinking about the work that was left to be done. The now deadline-free weight that we were still carrying. I always liked that about our friendship; that we were always thinking about the same thing. That was the night before he moved out and went back home to Long Island.
The lost item form from when my phone slipped out of my pocket during my first time on the Behemoth, a ride that I avoided for the entirety of my childhood. It was the first ride of that day, and I spent the rest of it trying to jump fences with my cousin to search for it. Eventually they found it. The body bent but the screen didn’t shatter. ♦