Diaristic and photographic backtracking
I was having dinner the other night with a couple of old friends. One of them lives here in New York and the other in California. They are both something like brothers, or the closest thing to a siblings I can imagine. Another person was there I didn’t know so well and somehow the conversation turned to living in New York and I attempted to describe my feelings of apathy and disinterest with not only new York, but the entire world, or at least the places I have been. I think I was trying to say I find the culture I’m surrounded by unsatisfying. I told him I feel unambitious. My two old friends then pointed out how hard I work on my photos and my life and how much I seem to care about what I do and moving forward. I move forward through this chasm with some kind of intense passion not knowing what the point is. I am filled with love and with hate sometimes too. I love making pictures of my life and am so fucking sick of them too. Editing pictures is just as tiresome as editing life and making decisions, each movement, question, decision involving a serious of steps that exhausts me. I have too much to say and don’t know how to say it. There is a small enjoyment creeping in so slowly though…how strange
That being said these photos for me are about deeply personal experiences and observations as well as the enjoyment of recording things photographically. I am always introspective about my being and hopefully can one day translate my perspective to others who need to hear or know there is someone else who is a passionately disillusioned as they are. As fulfilling as it is to read about art theory and what photographs mean, I grow weary. What does this mean? It’s like a mathematical equation I don’t feel capable of solving. Wait? Don’t answer that! I need to write for 50 years 8 hours a day to convey what i really mean to say.
The build up of pictures, life, stuff and memories combined with my own attempts of reconciliation with my past trauma and joys tend to leave me emotionally overwhelmed; like a pleasant purgatory that resembles a garbage dumb or half way destroyed building, where I’m wandering looking at articles of my life and those of others and wondering where we all make peace. I want it to be simple, but it’s not…nothing is further from the truth.