“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” – Carl Gustav Jung
We Have No Heads, New Orleans by Molly Jarboe, 2011
Some Early Work
I was invited to give a talk about my photography in Lancaster, UK at the end of the Month. Preparation got me thinking about some examples of my early work. These three were all shot in Mexico for a project entitled Living on the Edge, 1998 which is a compare and contrast of both sides of the US / Mexico border. I’ll update this post with more info soon.
I Can See Clearly Now: An Opaque Post About Loss
I recently lost something dear to me. The loss didn’t come with a sudden absence; physical proximity remains unchanged. Instead, in an instant, years of ambiguity crystallized. As the only visitor in the group, I was afforded an outsider’s view and unwittingly, I glimpsed a monster. I recognized what it was immediately, even as it carried on, hiding in plain sight. In that momentary burst, I caught sight of the massive thing sulking in the shadows, feigning self righteous indignation and crying out, “Poor me!” It turns out the monster has been hiding there all along.
I’ve come to realize that blind loyalty to the hope of what could be is all that accounts for the sweetness I felt for so many years. But this possibility never materialized even in the shape of a small gesture from the other side, and so I must face the sadder realization that nothing has truly been lost. I’ve had to confess my own naivety at believing that it ever really was possible. At least for a short while, the loss of hope on this matter as a whole will burrow through the optimistic part of my heart like a tiny mole.
But I am an optimist and this too will pass. Thankfully, something can be learned from these things.
We Have No Heads, New Orleans by Molly Jarboe, 2011
(please imagine Bob Marley’s verson of “I Can See Clearly Now…” as a score to this post)
T-Rex in Pendleton
‘Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be.’ Kurt Vonnegut
(I saw this cement t-rex in Pendleton, NY and I did a U turn a quarter of a mile down the road to go back and get this shot. I took several shots and decided to post this Instagram version on facebook. My sculptor friend, Dave recognized it and gave me the back story. It was sculpted by John Czerwinski – cement man for Dave’s father when Dave was growing up. As an adult, Dave worked with John on new houses for many years.)
Ophelia: In Search of a Metaphor
Every time I come across this 1852 rendition of Ophelia by John Everett Millais, my mind starts searching for a metaphor to relate back to my project Tangled. I’m drawn to it almost entirely because of the abundant detail and intense colors Millais used, which are typical of the complex compositions of the Pre-Raphalite painters.
The story behind Millais’ painting is interesting and strangely aligned with the story of Ophelia. Elizabeth Siddal modeled for this mysterious Shakespearian death scene, in a bathtub with lamps beneath to warm the water. On one occasion, the lamps went out and the water grew icy cold. Siddal became ill, apparently willfully, for she remained in the water without protest as Millais painted on for hours. She eventually died of a drug overdose that is widely held to have been a suicide.
From Gertrude’s speech about the death of Ophelia we learn that she accidentally fell into the water and then simply neglected to save herself from sinking. This passiveness is very much in line with the way Ophelia lived her life throughout the play – always going with the flow, doing what she was told to do, never making a decision for herself. What is intriguing to me beyond the sublime aesthetics of the painting is how Ophelia’s story takes a turn with Gertrude’s further observations that Ophelia’s death seemed natural and that she was mermaid-like or a “native” creature in the water. This is something she had never shown an inclination toward in life. It’s almost as if the flora of the river and the riverbank, so beautifully depicted in Millais painting had the power to seduce Ophelia to surrender her life to the growth and decay of the natural ecosystem.
I’m still searching for my metaphor. I feel it very much within reach.
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.